What Dreams May Come
by amalspach
Summary: Sherlock Holmes doesn't dream, he reminiscences. And what he recounts is the luck of the draw. Eventual Joanlock, three to four parts.
1. Part 1: The Ascension

**Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Elementary. I just felt the need to stick in my own two cents for some reason. Also, this is only sticking to canon until about halfway through season three, as that is as far as I've managed to see so far.**

 **Happy Valentine's Day, by the way! Here's this thing. Sorry if it's not so good. I'm not all that well versed in the story itself - I just started watching and got inspired. With that said, please enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes is a man of numerology, calculation, intrigue and intelligence. He is a pleasant, chaotic contradiction of terms; orderly yet brutally and rather unfortunately oblivious in matters of personal space, completely cynical yet empathetic to the common man, ingenious yet enclosed in his own violation of the world's rules. He's spent the entirety of his life trying to escape the ordinary at all costs, to finally find a place or stage or time in which he is happy, possibly in love, or at the very least, content.

As in all aspects of his existence, ever-changing though they may be, his unconscious state is no less strange.

You see, he doesn't dream.

Peculiar, of course, but dreams are the manifestations of loose thoughts flitting through the idle brain, trying to be made sense of, but he's not used to having ends that are not neatly tied off, thoughts left incomplete or unpondered. He's Sherlock Holmes, and hasn't he always done what he wanted to? Isn't that what the tattoos and the investigations and the fleeting fascinations were all about? Filling the hours?

It doesn't matter. Dreams are foreign, and he doesn't have them. Not even once, not even as a child.

Instead, he experiences memories on repeat, running through his mind like film reels left in a movie theater. He relives select moments again and again and again until they fade to static and he reawakens. Sometimes the return is disappointing, or sometimes it is a welcome reprieve. In any event, it is one of the few areas of his life he has absolutely no control over.

Tonight was no different.

Tonight was her and himself, their first meeting. He holds out his arm, prepared to distinguish art forgeries from authentic masterpieces, and she takes it, eyes shining with mischief. Her hair falls over her shoulders, her hands slotting around his jacket like puzzle pieces.

He hates himself, most nights, for dreaming about Irene. If he could relive the moment for real - the static air, the pleasant lighting, the witty banter - he would walk out immediately and never come back. Falling in love with someone was stupid - she could still be alive if it weren't for him.

Falling in love. Irene was the only one who _really_ took a fall, wasn't she?

When he wakes up, startlingly alert and upright, he remembers that Watson is also within the Brownstone.

Sherlock shouldn't find that comforting, the thought of another person, even if it is his sober companion, being only a few steps away.

That thought, odd as it is, is almost more disturbing that seeing Irene again. At least the dead tend to stay dead, even if all they leave behind are the memories.

* * *

Watson is . . . surprisingly tolerable. She's fairly clever, quick on her feet, and has a decent eye for detail. She doesn't seem to hold him down during investigations and even has the occasional spurt of usefulness.

He's not going to relapse. Really, he isn't. He doesn't _need_ a sober companion.

But perhaps an acquaintance wouldn't be so bad. Or, maybe with the right mentor, a student. Joan Watson has . . . well, potential may sound slightly juvenile, as she's already a grown adult capable of her own choices, but she is different.

He dreams about the in-between moments often, now. The times she knits her brow when looking at crime scenes, as if she is actually interested in what he does, or whenever Joan insists on accompanying him to meetings with the authorities, as though she wants to be informed.

It's nice, almost, being believed in. Even if it's coming from Joan Watson.

* * *

He cannot quite recall when they became friends, when he started to trust her.

He's combed his subconscious a million different ways - for once, there is no logical, clean-cut answer. He's Sherlock Holmes, and he has baggage that stretches to the moon, and she's Joan, who's stuck here with him yet somehow not running for the door.

He's wondered, occasionally, why people have things such as 'best friends'. They don't last very long, and most cannot fathom how hard it is to stick around once things get hard. When they experience a death, or a trauma, or a disability, or an unfortunate drinking problem, others tend to leave. This is just the nature of the beast, and Sherlock has never expected anything different.

Joan, though. She sees his job and knows about his addiction and understands his mind, and she's not going anywhere.

Sherlock can't remember why they are friends, but she is the best of his, somehow. His only real friend, most days.

* * *

There is little in life that is more terrifying than Joan Watson leaving the Brownstone for something as insipid as _dating_.

She 'needs her own space', fine.

She 'wants to get out of the house for a little bit', okay.

But dating?

That very notion is somehow unacceptable. She's _his_ best friend. She's _his_ protegee and partner.

She's not someone else's date.

Sherlock needs her available at all times, and that means he needs her here, where she is safe and at home and not _dating_. It's a waste of time, anyhow - coffee, dinner, drinks, and going home. Not so imploring, not so fascinating, and certainly not as whirlwind spurring and intriguing as the modern media imagines it is.

He dated, once. And now he's alone, as is to be expected, and Irene with stars made of freckles and gold in her irises is gone with the wind. People aren't supposed to enter relationships with eachother - they are destined to end badly. Nothing lasts forever.

Sherlock would like whatever he has with Joan, though, to last. She . . . grounds him, when he takes off from the ground. It's something nobody, not even Irene, had been able to do, and nobody seems to _get_ that. No one they know understands what she does for him, what strange sort of friendship they have cultivated. Joan makes him strive to be better, and this is what has made him greater - before now, nobody had ever cared what he did, and now he was making decisions for two. It forced him to be accountable for her, to accept responsibility to someone else for the first time.

She's good for him.

A small, selfish part of himself doesn't want her to be good for anyone else. She helps him remain sane, and if he ever lost Joan because of dating . . . Well. It would be unthinkable.

When he finally collapses, he recounts the first day he met Joan, all down to the last detail; there is the squeak of soles on the worn wooden floorboards, the lingering sunlight streaming inwards, the brightness of the starched walls, and the glare of screens from the background, and in the center of all of the old is a single outlier of the new. She has no idea that she is about to become the voice in his head, and that she is going to be embarking on a trip into criminal justice in a mere number of hours. Joan is, so to speak, fresh off the boat.

He watches, introduces himself rudely, and wonders if, given the chance, he would change anything about that memory considering how they have turned out today.

Probably not. Joan should have known about the worst of him from the very beginning, and that entails his sharp tongue.

Sherlock relives a thousand lifetimes, stuck in a loop, before awaking slumped over in a chair. Around his shoulders is a blanket, and over in the kitchen the unmistakable sound of eggs sizzling can be observed.

He smiles, inexplicably, because Joan is here at the Brownstone and not on a date.

* * *

There is something so irrevocably _wrong_ about Joan and Mycroft as a couple.

First of all, Sherlock must note, he's _Mycroft_. In his mind, that name stirs up a variety of definitions: lazy, petulant, annoying, boring, burdensome, and several more inventive, colorful phrases. Dependable, honest, patient, kind - those things are not anywhere near the image he has managed to cultivate for his older brother. And yet, Mycroft and Joan are out having a meal together.

You know, alone.

Like a date.

He's always detested her dating habits, naturally, but Joan+Mycroft+romance is a level above foul. It is revolting, and utterly unacceptable. Mycroft is Mycroft, and he was not what Joan should need or want or think about shagging. Joan wasn't lazy or petulant or boring - in fact, she was the exact opposite.

Joan Watson was exceptionally devoted to everything she did. She persevered despite all manners of rigor and tribulations, enduring even the immense task of coexisting with Sherlock Holmes, recovering addict. She was clever, and though it wasn't his particular brand of smart, she possessed a stroke of genius all her own and a decent talent for observation. She had good instincts and a way with the vast majority of people. She was endlessly driven, rather charming, and decidedly _not_ dull.

She was also pretty, what most would call 'beautiful', but that was of little consequence, of course.

Joan was simply . . . wonderful, maybe. Bright, as strange as it sounds. She provided some semblance of meaning, of balance, to his life.

Now Mycroft, on the other hand. He was not luminescent like Joan, and he was a right prat used to keeping to himself. He couldn't possibly deserve her.

"He's your brother," she says. "You should spend some time with him," she reminds him constantly.

Sherlock doesn't need friends. He already has Joan, after all, and Bell and Gregson, in a sense.

What he needs is for Mycroft and his meddling self to get away from him and Joan. _They_ were partners, and there was no place in their delicate relationship for a troublesome sibling.

Still, they were out having dinner. Though he had no desire to go, Sherlock finds himself wishing he had. Then, at least, they would have had a chaperone, and there would be no reason for this prolonged discomfort.

When she arrives back, she mentions something along the lines of 'it was good, Mycroft's great at cooking' and 'he wants to get to know you again' and 'you should have come, we talked about you a lot'. He knows he can't hope to control her outside friendships, but all he's hearing is _Mycroft and I_ , swimming through his head.

It's not his place to decide who she talks to. He's nobody but her colleague.

Still, the next several nights after, he dreams of Joan, how she smiles at the prospect of the Holmes brothers bonding again. About how 'nice' of a time she had, and how sincere in her analysis Joan had been.

A week later, though, he relives a day spent with Irene, and it leaves him with the oddest feeling of guilt.

* * *

Whenever Joan does anything particularly endearing, he remembers Irene, and the days after her.

In dreams, he keeps stabbing needles into skin, experiencing the rush of endorphins for the first time. The drugs act with rapid speed, sending him into a temporary vision of clarity, away from the remorse. Suddenly Sherlock doesn't need to ponder every insignificant detail in every single intake of sight - he is free, away from his own mind, and the result is staggeringly welcome. It's much like settling into a new skin, feeling the prickle of detachment between the world and its mortality.

So this is what it must be like, to be a god.

So. This is what it must be like to be _normal_ , then. It's an exemplary place to visit; perhaps he would like to relocate, then.

It is relived on loop, the ecstasy of being _okay_ again, or at least not drowning in sorrows and regrets. Each time, blonde hair and teasing smiles would come to mind, a blur of luminescence on the horizon, before he squeezed the needles harder and braced for the highs.

Each time, when he woke up, he thought of Watson, and wondered what she would say about him.

* * *

Irene was not Irene. She was Moriarty.

She was never a painter, a visionary trying to search for the right inspiration.

She was never the bright spark he had assumed her to be, the clever and brilliant patch of light in a dark world.

She was never _his_ , as she never loved him in the first place, did she? And, even if she had, Sherlock was her assignment before her lover, and in the end she choose her criminal empire over him.

Damn, it shouldn't _hurt_ this much.

Joan gives him sideways glances, toeing around him now that he's out of the hospital like he's made of glass. She's not pushing him to talk, not pressuring him into revealing his feelings on the subject.

She says that he has every right to feel sad and lonely and betrayed. You don't get over someone you love so easily, no matter who they are.

Sherlock will survive. He always does, and he did the first time. Most days, he is fine, and he can shove Moriarty into a mental drawer.

He doesn't need her. He has a life.

He does. Really.

Sherlock and Joan have a very good thing going for them. It's . . . home.

The only signs he shows of cracking are the ones found in his nightly visions. It's Irene, at a windowsill, watching the rain through rippled curtains. And then, there she is, raising a haughty eyebrow at something trying he managed to say. She's cooking eggs on a lazy golden morning and burning toast in a toaster, a quality that he had always found endearing for some inexplicable reason. Irene is here, she is there, she is laughing at clever jokes and sipping tea and throwing her arms around his neck. She and her terribly pretty memories are _everywhere_ , and suddenly they are smothering and inescapable and he wants to light all of those fond moments on fire and watch them blaze to ashes.

He sorts through them, observing each one with a trained eye, and he attempts to weed out which events were genuine and which were all make believe. He finds, with a start, that even the great Sherlock Holmes cannot deduce the difference between reality and pure fantasies anymore.

He hates her, he thinks. But not nearly as much as Sherlock hates himself for not noticing how wrong he was for loving her.

* * *

So. Mycroft and Joan shagged.

Well. That's . . .

He can't even think about it. Joan and Mycroft put together turn his stomach.

So, as a result, he thinks about it all the time.

Mostly out loud. Mostly in the form of a vicious barb.

Joan deserved better. Joan deserved the world.

( _You are better than Mycroft_ , says a little voice in the back of his head. He's rather fond of ignoring it.)

Sherlock gives it up, eventually. But not before numerous nightmares involving Joan and Mycroft _together_. How horrible.

* * *

Joan has been kidnapped and he is falling apart at the seams.

He's furious, and terrified, and so _worried_ he's going to tear himself in two.

Sherlock is all chaos and brilliance and flash, bright and burning. Joan was reliable, stable, grounding, the one that made sense and was organized and created plans and could think like a normal human being. She's always been his other half, his order, and now she is gone, and he is loosing it badly.

Mycroft is there, stupid and useless and not-Joan. This is all his fault. This is all his troublesome brother's fault.

It should be Mycroft. Mycroft should be gone, being tortured or beaten or god knows what.

Not Joan. Not his Joan Watson.

If she dies, he will never forgive Mycroft. Sherlock will hate him until the end of time and even beyond that.

"I think she's the person you love most in this world," his sibling tells him, saying the words softly as though Sherlock is a wild animal he is trying not to alarm. His eyes reveal all the guilt he is harboring, and it occurs to the consulting detective that perhaps Mycroft is just as torn up about Joan's vanishing act as he is.

But that doesn't change the fact that she is still not here, and Mycroft is the reason why.

Sherlock wants to kill him.

He won't stop wanting to kill him until Joan is back where she belongs, back home, and tucked away in her room, sleeping like there is no tomorrow. She will wake up to fresh breakfast and warm coffee and then proceed to go on her run. She'll come and take a shower, change again, and head up to the station to look at cold case files or a new investigation, if she's up for either. Then, they will return, and she'll be safe and happy and busy again, and he'll watch her read a book or type on her computer or walk back upstairs to nap. _That_ is their life, their life together. That's what is meant to be.

Bloody Mycroft.

He tries to refocus, as being pissed beyond belief won't get back Joan Watson from her kidnappers, and formulates new strategies.

All the while, he thinks of what his brother said: _I think she's the person you love most in this world._ Mycroft is right, for once in his miserable existence. Joan _does_ mean the world to him.

He wouldn't survive another day without her there.

* * *

When she is brought back to him, she's exhausted but mostly unharmed. She's feeling betrayed, and rightfully so, by Mycroft, and Sherlock seriously considers tearing his older brother's head off of his shoulders. It is one thing to toy with Sherlock, but it is another entirely to mess with Joan.

She goes upstairs, sleeps, and in the morning she mentions leaving the Brownstone to find her own place.

She can't be serious, of course. It's just stress and panic and loose emotions, drifting around.

She's confused, obviously, because she still has to want golden afternoons and beekeeping on the roof and heading out for work together like he does. If she doesn't want that life, he has no idea why he's even there.

So. It's not real.

It's not.

* * *

"You have this pull about you . . . it's like gravity," she explains, smiling in a bittersweet manner. And, she continues to say, if she doesn't move out, she'll get trapped in his orbit and she'll never experience an existence apart from his again.

She really means it, doesn't she?

The only problem is, he doesn't want Watson to leave. He wants to be closer still, to know every single secret and be able to read every single line on her face with practiced ease. He wants her to pass out over the table while shifting through case files and he wants her to be woken up every morning in a new way, preferably with a turtle involved. He wants her to be the first person he sees every morning and the last face he passes when he goes to sleep. They're _partners_ , and he never thought all that would change.

Joan is right, though. If she didn't leave now he'd never let her go. He'd request, rather vocally, that she never leave his side.

He understands. He's a bit of a wreck, isn't he?

Sherlock starts preparing for the beginning of the end.

He dreams and reminisces before finding himself, years younger, roaming the dusky streets of London.

London's lovely this time of year. Perhaps he'll stay a while.

* * *

 **Hey, so this is the beginning of a new mini series. Again, it's going to be following canon for the most part up until midway through season three, which is about as far as I've watched.**

 **So, hope everybody enjoyed this. It was going to be a long oneshot until I decided to break it up into parts, and I'm forecasting about three or four sections. Joanlock will grow.**

 **Also, if you care about Transitions or Elementary, My Dear Rosie, don't worry, they're close to getting updated, I promise. I'm just a procrastinator, but I've got another 12k down for EMDR and about 6k for Transitions, so they have been worked on. I appreciate your patience.**

 **I don't know what I'm doing, clearly. I just do this for fun.**

 **Meh.**

 **Anyways, thanks for reading and be sure to leave a comment, follow, or favorite if you liked this. I thrive off of validation.**

 **See you next update!**


	2. Part 2: And The Interlude

**So, I'm back.**

 **Here's the next installment in the admittedly small saga. This is going to be based upon his time in London and how he fared during the gap between seasons. It's a big patch of the lives of Watson and Holmes that is completely glossed over. Sherlock meets Kitty and solves some cases while being associated with MI6, but that's about all we get to know for sure. I guess this is my interpretation, then.**

 **This will probably be a little bigger than the last chapter (if you didn't realize this, I write the opening note before the actual story, so I have no idea how things are going to shake out - in a weird way, that sort of makes us even) but hopefully just as interesting. That and, while I know that Sherlock meets Kitty years after her traumatic past, I kinda took artistic liberty and wrote the first encounter as I thought it could go as opposed to what may have happened. I know that's probably not how it went, but I thought the scene would be slightly funny and decided to make it my own.**

 **All that aside, thanks for sticking around to chapter two. I really appreciate that.**

 **Anyways, I'll stop talking. Enjoy!**

* * *

He left with little more than a note.

He's by himself, wandering across a city overseas that is both familiar and completely foreign again. It's home but not.

This is what he wanted. To leave, to make a fresh start, to pretend he was fine with being Sherlock Holmes, man of mechanics and mystery, utterly alone.

It's miserable. Absolutely miserable. Even when he sleeps.

* * *

He passes 221B over the next few weeks. He considers going inside, seeing as the building is probably his now, but it doesn't seem right.

The last time he was there, Joan was staying with him.

So Sherlock keeps walking, shuffling with his shoulders hunched and his hands folded into the coat he's been sporting. Step over step, step over step, and then 221B Baker Street is far out of sight before he remembers to look up.

He dreams about manning up and clicking the door shut behind him, but in every single one of those, _Mycroft_ is in his kitchen, anyhow, which is more than enough encouragement to stay away.

* * *

Sherlock isn't looking for a friend. Really, he isn't.

Still, he stumbles into Kitty during an investigation, anyhow.

She's sitting in Scotland Yard, drowning in a hideous orange quilt and strewn out on a bench, swiping her nose with her left hand. At first, he completely passes over her, dismissing the young girl as background information. He's never been very conscious in social situations, per say, but it appears that the station is rather short staffed tonight.

"Looking for something?" she mutters dryly, sniffing again. Sherlock focuses in on Kitty, realizing that she must be addressing him given the unfortunate lack of officers.

"The commanding officer. I inquired a while ago about a case and I texted him to meet me here, but it appears that he's preoccupied. Probably by any pretty girl; he did seem to be a predictable, weak-willed man for an investigator, if you will," the genius declares, smiling wryly. It's been a long night. "A bit boring for a teenage girl?" She leans back, uncombed hair falling over her shoulders.

"Oh, didn't you notice the blanket they wrapped around me? It's for comfort, apparently, because I could be in shock. Luckily, I was able to send the intermediate who's been babysitting me on some fool's errand to get an ice pack - she's been watching me like a hawk all night." She stretches, the girl, and smirks without humor. "But, please, I'm a boring teenage girl. Don't waste your time on me."

He examines her again. Her locks are fairly well groomed - no split ends coupled with meticulous curls, as is the trend of youths hoping to impress the opposite sex, and yet her head is greasy. She hasn't washed up in at least four or five days, which isn't typical for someone so attentive to their styling. No fresh makeup, either, if his knowledge of cosmetics is up to par (and, as always, it is). Her boots are scuffed, and though they appear well loved and the soles are rather worn they are constantly polished, and a girl who adored those shoes enough to wear them everywhere and maintain them consistently wouldn't allow them to get so banged up. The little he could actually make out of her clothing was slightly ripped, as if tugged on and off in a hurry, and her back was curled while the shoulders folded back, indicative of defensive behavior. She's sustained an injury.

The conclusion, given all of that information, is easy to draw; she is most definitely a victim. Possibly the one of the very same case he's just been interested in.

"Were you, per chance, assaulted?" he asks, realizing seconds later that his inquiry may not be the smartest move towards a traumatized youth.

Joan taught him quite a bit about boundaries and propriety with normal people. He ought to remember some of those lessons before speaking.

Instead, though, she snorts.

"Really? What gave it away?" She snaps her fingers. "The shock blanket, I bet. I always point it out and then it's ever so easy to put two and two together."

"Always?"

"You're not the first person to ask what I'm doing at Scotland Yard," the stranger murmurs dryly. "As you can see, it's ever so busy in here. If only something entertaining would occur." He lifts an eyebrow, accepting her silent challenge.

"Kidnapping, five years ago, and abuse while you were captured. But this is different. You've been taken up off the street, roughed up, and your back lacerations have been split again. Minor scarring, perhaps burns, but you fit the victim profile of the . . . " He trails off, sighing. "No, just beaten. Drat. I thought we were getting somewhere, but you were just privy to a common mugging, weren't you?" Her eyes have gone wide with shock of a different type, yet she pulls it together quickly.

"So. You know things just by looking at me. What, do you read minds or something?"

"It's merely a series of logical deductions, simple observations. You pick it up with time." She leans forward, shock blanket slipping off her shoulders.

"You got one thing wrong, though." Sherlock rolls his eyes but complies.

"And what's that?"

"Can you keep a secret?" she whispers, at the edge of her chair. The genius almost snorts, but pulls it together at the last second.

"I promise not to reveal whatever it is you're about to tell me, yes. Unless, of course, you happen to be a murderer." She waves him closer, gesturing impatiently with both hands. The girl, once she deems him to be within good proximity, cups his ear and talks.

"I bet you feel really stupid now, huh?" she says quietly, the laughter evident in her voice. He frowns and scoots away.

God, she's shaking so hard she's rattling the chair.

"You know, I don't know why I expected you to be anything more than what you are. Everyone has been remarkably dull since I've arrived in London, I must admit." She snorts between her stroke inducing laughter. "Very mature."

"Bloody hell, your _face_ ," she whispered through stuttering drawls. "By far, the best thing I've seen all day."

Well. This _was_ a waste of time.

Just like that, the familiar annoyance of his ringtone starts up, and he's relieved from constant boredom. Sherlock reaches down his front pocket, trying to whip out his phone before whatever incompetent officer out in the field decides to give up and continue their display of bumbling ineptitude. However, when he feels around the confines of his jacket, nothing is there.

With a frown, the consulting detective extends a hand down the other pocket. Still, there is nothing.

He glances at the girl. She's still laughing her arse off, practically about to fall out of her very uncomfortable chair. It's almost over, though, and as she takes in one last shuddering breath, he catches a glimpse of something shiny beneath the folds of her far-too-big stress blanket. Something that looks suspiciously like his mobile.

Sherlock snatches it from the crook of her arm, flipping it over. Suddenly, she's scowling furiously.

"Oh, come on. That's no fair."

"You pick-pocketed me. No one ever pick-pockets me without awarding my notice." The girl huffs and looks away.

"Well, I'd like to think I'm pretty much a master, if you're so worried. Don't feel to bad, most people don't notice me for hours."

"I did."

"Your phone rung. That doesn't count."

Right, his mobile. The one that's still ringing.

Ah.

He, still keeping his attention fixed on the stranger, accepted the call.

"Sherlock Holmes speaking," he says dryly, hoping that this will be brief, succinct, and interesting. It's none of those things, of course, because Scotland Yard can be terribly inefficient when it desires to be, and the person on the line is clearly one of the 'fresh meat' on the force being told to handle a call by his superiors. With the complete lack of social skills he possesses - the stuttering, the repetitive dialogue, the constant _apologizing_ \- it's a wonder the police are still in business at all.

He ends the conversation a few minutes later, returning the phone to his jacket and actually buttoning the silly thing, for once. He casts another weary gaze at the girl, who has been attentive to Sherlock ever since the message was taken, and in a stroke of pure insanity, he talks to her again.

"You seem a lot cleverer than half the people around the Yard. How would you like to abandon your babysitter who still hasn't come back with your ice pack - a bit telling, that - and come investigate a crime scene with me?"

Her eyes light up like firecrackers.

Despite the previous mugging, whatever mysterious past traumas she'd endured, and the noticeable lack of sleep and grooming, the stranger practically leapt off of her seat, stress blanket falling to the floor.

"Kitty, at your service," she smiles, thrilled to be doing anything that wasn't _this_. "God, I'm so bloody happy you came by tonight. Nicking things from the secretaries gets a little boring after a while." Sherlock raises an eyebrow at the name but doesn't mention it.

"Hopefully you're better company than you look. We'll be stuck together for the duration of the night."

"I'm looking forward to it."

It turns out Kitty, barring her ridiculous title, has a sharp eye and an especially sharp tongue, as is proven when she both discovers a key detail in the investigation in under ten minutes while simultaneously insulting an analyst ("Honestly, sir, I thought your job was to gather information. Your paycheck is wasted on you; why hire someone who's blind, deaf, and an idiot to perform in your profession?").

Sherlock may or may not have suppressed some ill placed chuckles.

He may or may not have given up and started laughing altogether once the poor man turned red in the face.

Either way, meeting Kitty is probably the best thing to have happened to the genius since his return, and he allows her to crash on his couch, as it is doubtful that she has anywhere else to go. She's an exceptionally good pick-pocket for a young woman; where else would she live but the streets?

He dreams about the way she made him smile, and then about how Kitty, juvenile as it was, nearly doubled over in hysterics after cracking such a stupid joke.

Halfway through the visions, he realizes this was probably the first time he'd truly grinned since returning. The first time he allowed himself to remember what happiness and having friends was like.

After that, he's quite decided on one thing. He's a very funny man, indeed.

* * *

Kitty remains on his couch until morning, and he starts making scrambled eggs and french toast silently in the kitchen upon waking up. When she finally rouses, she is visibly surprised to see that there's a plate set out for her.

"What's this, then?"

"Breakfast, obviously. You've proven to be halfway observant so far, so I'd hope you could deduce the meaning of a few eggs and a piece of bread." He cut the food with the flat side of his fork.

She continued to stare.

"Well? Kitty, good god, just sit down and eat."

Kitty does as she is told. The teenager ignores her rather uncomfortable bruises and settles at the table.

"I got a text inquiring about a triple homicide, if you want to walk down to the morgue with me in a moment. Not for everyone, I'll admit, but I could use an extra pair of eyes now and again. Company wouldn't be too remiss." He glances at his companion sideways. "So, interesting?" Kitty carefully picks up her fork and takes a bite. She tries not to let the syrup get all over her face, but it does so anyways.

"You wanna know something?" the teenager says, wiping at her mouth. "It sort of sounds nuts, but that sounds like the best thing that's happened to me in months. Hell, why not?" She takes a swig of the provided beverage - a glass of orange juice. "Thanks for all of this, by the way. I didn't exactly get to thank you before and I'll be out of your hair tomorrow, if you need me gone."

Sherlock stares at the young woman. He stares until she begins to shift in her chair, though more from self inflection than unease.

He's really not good for anybody right now. He doesn't know if he'll ever be good for anybody.

But he's been absolutely miserable the last few weeks. Something has to give.

"No problem at all," he finds himself stating instead. "My place is a little too quiet. Perhaps you could stick around, if you don't care. I imagine I'm an awful flatmate, anyways." She slowly smiles, almost, and suddenly seems a lot more at home. Kitty stabs at her egg with renewed vigor.

"Really? You'd just let a teenage girl bunk with you?"

"I don't see why not. You're probably a lot less dull than most potential neighbors."

"One of my many charms." He finishes, and so does she, and then they are off to the morgue before ten o'clock. It's just another day for Sherlock Holmes, but a monumental one for Kitty, and he observes her wonderment at his fanciful life with a subdued curiosity.

How strange this all must seem, after living amongst all the normal people for the entirety of your existence. It all must feel so foreign.

And yet, Kitty doesn't act like she should, like this is all odd and alarming. She's just as enthralled about it as she was last night, practically leaping at the prospect of escape. She's behaving as though she's found her calling.

He dreams about it, about how excited she was to simply be doing something that meant _anything_ , and he cannot help but feel a fierce kinship with the girl.

* * *

He thinks about Joan, about how betrayed alone she must feel, how utterly _angry_ , how one hundred percent done she probably is with him. He glares at his phone and thinks about the rift he's cut between himself and New York. Is the police office alright? Did Gregson succeed in getting back with his wife? Joan, god, is she even consulting anymore?

For the first time in nearly forever, he's not entirely sure. How inconvenient - this must be how other _ordinary_ people feel all the time, not knowing things. It's maddening, the uncertainty.

Sherlock dreams about nights at the Brownstone. It makes him feel all the more achy come morning when he wakes up in London again.

At least Kitty is there. At least he is not alone.

* * *

"You know, people are idiots," Kitty says primly, words clipped and pointed. An officer was looking - no, glaring - in their direction. At first, the detective was rather certain the bureau agent was glancing over at him, as most of the law enforcement bodies in London had taken a targeted disliking to Sherlock Holmes. However, this one was mentally stabbing Kitty, who stood next to him with crossed arms, returning his glare for all she was worth.

Of course, it only took Sherlock seconds to deduce the reason. This was the tenth adventure he had dragged the teenage girl along to, and while he enjoyed her company amongst the bumbling cops and the occasional MI6 check-up agent (for such an advanced and sophisticated agency, their methods of evasion were terrible - if they wanted to ensure he was fulfilling his obligations, they could have simply had someone tag along for the day, not have what was essentially a glorified babysitter/'spy' trail along behind the investigative team), it was abundantly clear that not every officer was fond of having a young civilian poke around the crime scenes. She wasn't really affiliated with any of them, after all, and her instinct for examination was a good sight better than most. Frankly, who wants to be upstaged by a teenager at work?

It's fine, mostly. Just not right now.

"She's still lingering around?" the commanding officer asks, raising an eyebrow at Kitty. "Thought your pet project would be gone by now."

"Still here, still has ears," the teenager mumbles beneath her breath, breaking away from her essential starring match to direct her gaze towards the ground.

"Still around, yes," Sherlock replies, waving him off. "And we're ready to work."

"We can't keep bringing in teenage girls with no expertise, Holmes," the nameless man presses again. He's not so much nameless, actually, as he is not important enough to remember the name of.

"She's . . . a friend." Sherlock says dismissively.

He can't remember the last time he's said that.

It was probably during a conversation about Joan.

God, he misses her in days like these.

But, yes, surprisingly, Kitty has become a friend. Strange, isn't it? However, he gets the feeling she gets him better than anybody else in London. Outcasts tend to gravitate towards eachother, after all.

The officer still raises an eyebrow.

"You have friends?"

"Ones that assist me on cases? Sure." The genius answers, starting to become genuinely irritable. "Would you move? You're obstructing the rest of the investigation." He moves, face red, shuffling away.

"Just, could you and your apprentice work a little faster, then? You're starting to overstay your welcome."

"Yes, like we've never done _that_ before," Sherlock replies drolly, walking in with Kitty at his heels. She mutters a brief 'thanks', a grateful smile tugging at the edges of her lips.

You know, she does have some potential, doesn't she? With him as her mentor, she could go far.

At night, he dreams of cases and examinations and his experiences teaching Joan, his protegee and partner. Somehow, thinking about her is a little less painful now.

* * *

"So you're my teacher?" she asks, laying on the couch and stretching.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Don't sound so dissapointed."

"I'm not dissapointed at all."

"Well then. Good."

"Yeah. I think . . . I don't know. This will be good for me. Exciting, isn't it?"

"Stimulating, yes. But you have to do everything I tell you to, Kitty. An apprenticeship from me isn't a game. I reserve the right to resend my offer." He pauses. "So, with that in mind, we need milk. So . . ." She groans and gets off the sofa, tugging on her boots.

"You're impossible. I don't even have money." He raises an eyebrow.

"You filched twenty pounds off of that annoying officer earlier today. I saw you." Kitty sticks out her tongue.

"He deserved it. He's a prick."

"Most of them are. You can't be petulant forever if you want them to take you seriously."

"Why not? It's worked for you." Sherlock rolls his eyes and his companion smirks. She leaves with the stolen twenty pounds and a profound sense of victory.

He dreams about the last time someone called him childish. He relives Joan's exasperation with a grin, for once.

* * *

Kitty has moved in.

This is not so surprising. He pretty much invited her in. But it doesn't fully register with the genius that he has a roommate until he sees her flipping through the telly, whining about how idiotic the news reporter is. In all honesty, her claims are valid. Anyone past the age of seven can say 'cumulonimbus' without stumbling over the letters, but that is all besides the point. The point is that he has a roommate again, and within that roommate he has an apprentice, and the last time he had one of those it didn't exactly end so well.

As all the millennials in New York are so fond of saying, 'fuck'.

He looks in the spare room of his unit, checking as thought to affirm this new reality. Sure enough, Kitty's sparse collection of clothing masquerading as a wardrobe is sitting in her designated chifferobe, and her purse is standing upright on an end table, and her spare set of shoes is tucked beneath a corner of the bed, which is left unmade, covers strewn all about. It looks lived in, made for actual people as opposed to ill defined, hypothetical guests, and yes, this knocks the gravity of his situation back into his face for the second time in five minutes.

He's living with somebody else who is going to be there for a while. She's _his_ responsibility.

"Kitty, we're going out," he says abruptly, walking swiftly out of her (and it is hers, now, isn't it?) room with her bag in hand. He tosses it to her and begins pulling on a coat. "Your mobile is in there, right? And your wallet?" She nods, confused, turning off the newscast.

"Always. Mind telling me where we're going?" She asks this, voice inquisitive and bracing for 'there's been another assault', but she gets up and starts tying her shoelaces immediately. It almost makes him smile.

"The boutique down the road."

"What, did you discover a sudden interest in ladies' garments? Or are you shopping for a late night stand or something? Because I don't feel comfortable helping you buy things in either scenario."

"You have a grand total of five shirts and two pairs of pants. I though teenage girls like you _jumped_ at the chance to spend other people's money on frivolous outfits." She pauses.

"You, the great Sherlock Holmes, are going clothing shopping? With _me_?" He shrugs.

" _For_ you, technically, but I suppose I'll be with you as well. MI6 will probably be happy to know you are capable of dressing properly. Top of their priorities, I'm sure." Kitty nearly hugs him, he thinks. She raises her hand and then deftly pulls it down, disguising it as some sort of insipid stretch. It's an unspoken truth; Sherlock Holmes doesn't _do_ hugs. He doesn't understand them. He's not used to having people to hug in the first place.

Nevertheless, after hitting three different clothing stores, some 'trendy' music shop nestled on the corner, and another convenience station, he appreciates the sentiment. They got away with four new jackets, two skirts, five dresses - one evening, two summer, two casual, three pairs of pants in various colors, and several rolls of socks and various undergarments (he met Kitty again outside of this section - he has very little desire to be known as both the aloof yet brilliant detective and also the strange man who loiters around the women's bra department, awaiting the hopefully quick return of his teenage associate). Upon lengthy consideration, she continues to purchase black fingerless gloves, a few sweaters, a sensible winter cap, a six pack of discount running shorts, a particularly stupid tank top, and many pairs of shoes. Far too many shoes to count. She was a teenager, after all.

And, among the things they collected that weren't clothing articles, there was a cheap pair of headphones, a new phone cover, a hair curler and a straightener, a few makeup products beyond the ones she'd miraculously acquired and stashed in the bathroom, a decent hairbrush, several cds, posters, and albums from that idiotic music store, and an assortment of 'feminine hygiene products'. He refused to touch or even acknowledge the existence of that bag, childish as it was, and Kitty teased him about it relentlessly.

When they arrive back, they shove everything into the room's closet, which had remained untouched before. Now it was at least halfway filled and seemed infinitely less empty. Personal products go into the toiletry cabinet, the music things are crammed into corners, and her room truly looks like it is . . . he doesn't know. Like a home, maybe. Something that she has all to herself.

His pocket is a few hundred dollars emptier, but when he dreams, he sees Kitty and her excitement during the shopping spree. How is it possible for someone to possess so much anticipation towards such a mundane, trying ritual? It occurs to him that maybe he's given her more than clothing and a few select items. Maybe he's given her something to _be_ excited for in the first place, as strange as it sounds.

She's really his apprentice, though. Weird, huh?

* * *

Once, without thinking, he dials up a very familiar number - he's memorized it long ago.

The phone chimes once, twice, and then he shuts it off, swiping to cut off the transmission before it even began, really.

The label reading 'Joan' goes dark, his phone screen fades to black, and he looks at the floor, hand kneading his forehead.

This is ridiculous. It shouldn't be this _hard_.

That night, when he finally falls asleep, he tries to summon the courage to let the dial carry through. He waits next to the mobile with anxiety and anticipation, but makes no moves to change anything, to disrupt the feed. Finally, after a virtual eternity, someone picks up.

"Hello?" comes a voice, and it's _her_ voice, and it's like . . . he's not quite sure. Sherlock can't really put what she sounds like into words. However, it makes him feel all the lighter, hearing her in person, just knowing that she's there. Joan is the one who brings him back to reality when he's running a thousand miles an hour, and just hearing 'hello' is almost like coming home.

Almost. She's not really there, though, is she?

So, when he resumes consciousness, he remains in bed for the next hour, staring at his phone the entire time. He twitches, struggles over whether or not to try again, and concludes that nothing will change. The definitions of insanity and stupidity are much the same: doing the same thing repeatedly and yet expecting different results. Sherlock knows himself. He knows that for all his intellect, he is not bold with matters requiring personal attachment, and Joan was the person he was most attached to in the world. She was his partner, his best friend, and there would be no way that he could stand up to her again and face her disappointment. Joan had been the person who believed in him. He wasn't ready to acknowledge the contrary yet.

Eventually he gets up, annoys Kitty until she, too, has risen, and makes smoothies. The deafening whirring of the blender is very effective in blocking out all of his thoughts.

* * *

He passes 221B for the second time since coming to London. He comes to a dead halt in front of the building, silently taking in the far too familiar brick, the notches in the door. He finds the spare key where it always is, and shoves inside with trepidation.

It isn't exactly how he remembers it. When Mycroft, before his incarceration, promised to have everything moved back in, that didn't necessarily mean that all of his belongings would be thrust into their original places. Who could recall exactly where things went after so much time, save Sherlock Holmes? And yet, there was one of his old diagrams, framed and sitting tall upon the wall. Here was an old seismograph he had patiently brought back to life, resting on a beaten Tibetan coffee table. And, over there, he could make out his collection of skeletons, carefully picked out from many a morgue over the years for the purpose of studying human evolution and anatomical structure.

Things weren't exactly as they had been, no. But walking into 221B Baker Street, complete with all of its unusual charm, was much akin to taking a fresh breath of air. _This_ was the version of London he had longed to share with Joan: the cold, dusky nights by the fireplace, the mysterious artifacts, the winding, seemingly endless corridors, all of which possessed intrigue and uniqueness. 221B and all of England was meant to be an adventure for her, something exciting.

He turned around, grinning madly, expecting to see her similar look of awe and appreciation. He was sorely dissapointed when he realized Joan was still in New York.

He'd forgotten, hadn't he? For all his genius, he still forgets that he left her behind, not the other way around.

It might be better this way. She'll get her space, get to do as she pleases, and he's . . . Well, he's got to have something. He's got his work, and the task of looking after Kitty, and those are momentous, important things. Those should be enough.

But Joan's still his best friend. He misses her like he misses the sun, blotted out behind London rainstorms.

Either way, he introduces Kitty to 221B the very next day. She, at least, is instantly enamored.

And, if he dreams that Joan was there too, smiling at all his old newspaper clippings, examining his telescopes, and prodding at his old chemistry experiments, then that's nobody's business, anyhow.

* * *

He touches the dreaded phone again and dials.

No one picks up. This is understandable, as it is 3am in New York City at the moment. Sherlock half wishes she would answer, but subconsciously he picked this time knowing that she wouldn't be able to respond.

Sad, he can tell. However, cowardice is a rather potent strain of infection, he's found. It seizes control of one's mind and actions like a drug, and the genius has had quite a bit of experience in that department.

He listens to her pre-recorded voicemail message and hangs up quickly, staring at the ceiling with such ferocity, he's fairly certain he's burned a hole through the drywall. He dreams about staring at the ceiling and watching as the roof chips away, burying him beneath the dust and joists. Not such a bad way to go, after all.

* * *

He has another meeting with MI6. They are not happy with him and his 'I work alone except for those I choose' attitude. This is not so surprising - few people can actually tolerate him at all. However, MI6 has been increasingly unhappy with him to the point where Sherlock is convinced they are going to take rash action and sic assassins on his flat any day now.

Targeted by hit men. However would Gregson and Bell take the news? One of their own, shot down by the government. My, how times have changed.

"You should be focusing on our tasks, our assignments, before anything else," an operative tells him, much like a parent to a misbehaving child. "You joined our ranks. You work for us. You're one of the most brilliant men alive; why can't you just _understand_ that?" He takes a long smoke, glaring at the detective expectantly. "Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

"There's a great deal of difference between understanding and acceptance," Sherlock provides instead, folding his legs over one of MI6's overstuffed meeting room chairs. "A drowning man can understand that the water will fill his lungs with fluid, effectively drowning him and causing internal chaos, and he can comprehend that the pressure alone may crush his organs if his body sinks too deep. However, he may not have accepted the reality of his situation and the prospect of death, despite the odds of being killed at sea being stacked against him. His failure to follow the predestined route of nature may result in his eventual survival, if he is able to come back to his senses and find a path to shore. In much the same way, I understand that I am a part of your agency, and yet the camaraderie and loyalty to the system you are so fond of reminding me off haven't been instilled yet. I've signed on with MI6, but I don't have the accept or appreciate your fruitless government enterprising. Now, do _you_ comprehend that?" He stands up, brushing off his pristine trousers. "I'm off to the morgue, actually. Scotland Yard only remains interesting for so long, so it's best to find another outlet for my oh-so-unique skill set. It's not as if anything you're offering right now is of any relevance, and I doubt any more of your insipid chats with me is going to curve the onset of boredom." The man splutters in his chair.

"MI6 still has questions, Sherlock Holmes! At least your brother could get things done!" Sherlock turns around, brow raised, and for a brief instant the silly man thinks he has succeeded at getting beneath his skin.

"Frankly, I don't give a fig about your questions. As you've already seen fit to say, I'm one of the most brilliant men alive, and if the same could be said of my idiot brother, don't you think Mycroft would be listening to your tirade instead of me?" He leaves without so much as another word, having angered the forces that be once again.

Kitty laughs about it endlessly, once he tells her the events of that afternoon.

He replays the man's bumbling ineptitude that night and quite agrees with her reaction. People are idiots, honestly.

* * *

He's staring at the phone again when Kitty catches him, raising an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Again?" He turns to glare at her, jolted out of his memorabilia.

"Again, Kitty?"

"You keep wanting to talk to some poor girl, but then you wuss out at the last minute. It's pathetic." The genius scowls.

"She's not some random _girl_ , she was my partner. And I'm not afraid of talking to her." Kitty nods with mock sympathy.

"Got into a lover's quarrel? I thought you chided the guys at the yard for mixing work and personal business, you hypocrite." He sighs, groaning while scrubbing a hand across his features.

"Bloody hell, Kitty, she's not my _lover_ , she's just . . . she's Joan, alright? She's my best friend." The teenager sits up with obvious interest.

"Well? Go on. I'd like to know about your partner. You don't really discuss your situation before moving back to London with me. It's kind of cool."

She's Kitty, and she never stands down, so he agrees, detailing all of their initial adventures, sweeping the teenage girl into his stories. It lights a fire in her eyes, seeing him like this, and he ends up discussing Joan's training as well.

"She sounds . . . amazing," Kitty said finally. "Your first protegee, right?"

"Her training came out well. She mastered all the skills - everything I hoped for and more in a student." He gives her a sideways glance. "On that note, have you been practicing your baton form? Single stick is an important, underappreciated skill, you know." She nods slowly.

"Yeah, I have been. Did you teach Joan single stick?" He blinks.

"I taught her all the necessary curiosities, so yes, single stick. Why?" She gets up, stretches, and begins to leave the room, a wicked grin spreading across her face.

"Well, if I want to beat the first protegee, I'm going to need to practice, right?" The teenager has an air of determination, of drive, about her. He can't help but feel proud.

Joan would be good with Kitty, he thinks that night.

* * *

He royally pisses off MI6 for real this time. He is a big enough man to admit when he is wrong, and maybe that scathing comment about the government's inefficiency and his harsh observation of several officials' marital statuses was slightly out of line. Mistakes were made.

But he looks around the room and cannot bring himself to regret speaking his mind. It is not the result of pettiness or prejudice against the system - it's simply his perpetual state of being. He's Sherlock Holmes, and he will be brutally honest without thinking about what he is saying. It's all true, anyhow, even if it is cruel. The one with the beard and the portly face had only about a year before an inevitable divorce, and the man in the blue suit's wife was clearly cheating. It's so obvious, really, it should have knocked them over the heads.

Yet apparently embarrassing the elite figureheads of a secret government organization in one of their most important board meetings is a serious issue, and now everyone is glaring at the consulting detective as if they want to burn holes through his head.

"I'm right," he blurts out, knowing full well that that's probably not the right answer. A man's eye twitches from across the table.

"Sherlock, you need to learn control and structure. An organization is only as strong as its weakest links," one states, massaging his brow thoroughly. "Learn discipline and act like a grown up."

"Please. You make me attend these pointless meetings and have agents check up on me. You treat me like a belligerent child that needs management when your own home lives are falling apart." He scans the room again, searching and sifting through faces. "That woman over there, her - "

"We know you're clever, Sherlock," another interrupts. "That's never been in doubt. But this is an organization of prestige and importance. Treat it with respect."

"Enlighten me, where do those factors come into play? I could easily outpace the vast majority of the board in wealthy, experience, title, talent, intelligence - I am better at Scotland Yard's investigation tactics than the whole of Scotland Yard. Maybe _I_ should be running this team, then."

"If you feel so strongly about our inefficiency, the door is open. We're not stopping you," the first man remarks, crossing his arms. His eyes are daring him, pushing him to walk away.

Sherlock doesn't disappoint. He's pretty much burned all of his bridges, anyways.

"Good day, then," he says, gathering his coat and shoving his arms through the sleeves forcefully. "Good riddance, too." He makes his way to the exit, leaving the whole of the representatives of MI6 gaping in his wake. "Oh, and by the way, I quit. Have fun finding a new lapdog."

Just like that, he is done with MI6 and they with him. It's dizzying, this rush of emotion and adrenaline. It's the most freeing thing he's experienced in months.

He relives the moment that night, the taste of victory nestled between his maw, and grins wildly.

* * *

The Reichenbach happens, for even the greats need to fall, and Sherlock Holmes is definitely one of the greats.

(He knows he needs to leave. London was never permanent. But now his beautiful city, the one that was all gleaming towers and dusky evenings and hidden streets seems far too claustrophobic and far too much of a reminder of all his mistakes.)

It's been nearly a year.

That's far too long.

* * *

Kitty doesn't understand. This is obvious.

"I don't understand," she says out loud as though to affirm this point. "Joan is . . ."

"In New York. And I want to return to New York."

"And I need my background information drawn up? Why?" He rolls his eyes.

"Because the Brownstone and all of my equipment is, for the most part, in New York. With Joan. And to travel, apparently most international airlines want to know you aren't a bomber or a terrorist, and hopefully not both. It shouldn't be a big deal, but I need your passport and background information." She looks at the ceiling, counting flecks in the paint. "Kitty? Still with me?"

"You're going to pity me after you see everything," she warns him, refusing to make eye contact. "I can get you that stuff, but you'll think I'm breakable. I hate that."

"God, is this what it's like to parent a teenager? It's so horribly dramatic," he sighs. "Kitty, you are a capable detective and a clever girl. I honestly couldn't care less about your background; do you think I'm proud of my track record? I was an addict at my lowest before I met my last partner. And, when I met you, you were an expert pickpocket. Nothing surprises me anymore." She stares at him with scrutiny, running slow eyes up and down his now familiar worn sneakers and suit jacket, before wordlessly nodding. The words stick to the back of her throat as she produces an official looking document from her room, carefully concealed beneath her things.

Funny. He couldn't recall having ever seen this envelope. She must have taken many precautions to keep it hidden from everyone, presumably for years.

"Thank you, Kitty," he tells her, the sentence coming out oddly thick and meaningful, and he cautiously draws out the first document.

When he first met the teenager, he noticed the old back injuries. This was inevitable, given his powers of innate deduction. However, he had never put much thought into them, other than the fact that she had been through some bad past experiences and they had since healed over with raised scars.

Now, though. Now the evidence of her traumas was recorded on paper.

She had been tortured and held captive by a serial killer who dabbled in the procuring of young women for what was essentially human trafficking. God knew what else the man did. Obviously, at the very least, the monster kidnapped civilians and took sadistic pleasure in torturing them before illegal transport. The bastard apparently had Kitty for three days before her natural genius and quick thinking proved enough to allow for her escape. Those marks on her back were not just marks - they were battle scars, _brands_ seared into her skin by some psychopathic criminal.

 _Three days_. The killer had her trapped for _days_ , and nobody had gotten around to rescuing her, his protegee.

That was . . .

Well. That was unacceptable.

Kitty stood by, watching him pour through the files. She was now drinking a cup of warm tea, avoiding his gaze.

"Before you ask, Scotland Yard knows. They took up the case - that's how they first got involved with me. They offered some witness protection, but they didn't catch the guy and there wasn't much real aid . . . I don't know. But they have a copy of all of this information. You could see why I hate showing just anybody this. Nobody wants to interact with a serial killer's prey, you know? It's a bit not good."

He says nothing for a long, long while. She shifts uncomfortably in her chair.

"Barring the fact that I mention this constantly, Scotland Yard really is comprised of idiots, isn't it?" he finally manages. "They should have caught this man. Undoubtedly, if I was there, I would have found him for you."

" . . . You're not, I don't know, mad at me? For not telling you something big about myself like this?"

"I'm plenty mad, but not at you. Those imbeciles should have done better. You were, what, five years younger? You never should have had to endure that hellscape. They're not even proper detectives - you saved _yourself_ , that's impressive and ingenuitive." He pauses from his tirade. "I'm proud, actually. But _bloody hell_ , I swear, I'm going to stop in at the Parliament to offer up a complaint about the investigative process England has set up. Tomorrow, I think, I'll just - " The brunette gets up out her chair and squeezes his hand tightly.

"Thanks," she whispers, tears tugging at the edges of her eyes. She's trying not to cry, isn't she?

He awkwardly pats her palm.

"Of course, Kitty. You're you. Why would you be anything less than incredible?"

It's what she needs to hear. She swipes at her face with the back of her digits, fingers messily smearing across her nose.

That night, he relives her quiet resignation, the bracing for the end, and he wonders if that was how he looks all the time: simply waiting around for the next fallout.

He cannot avoid everything forever, sadly.

* * *

He gets into the answering machine portion of his plan with Joan, this time. He doesn't know what to say, how to tell her he's coming back and how to admit that he's scared she'll hate him, so he says nothing, and the message is left blank.

"You need to talk eventually. She was your partner," Kitty reminds him. As though he could forget.

"I just . . . I can't gauge her from over the phone. I think I'm just counting down the time until I see her again."

"Then see her."

"I can't do that either. Joan can be terrifying."

"You're impossible," the teenager snorts, but she has no comment.

He dreams about what Kitty will blurt out next, about what wisdom about the complex being known as the human female she will deign him worthy of, but nothing rises up. It's very disappointing.

* * *

They are at the airport, and he's got major plans. He's instructed Kitty on single stick, advanced safe cracking, some basic car jack skills, poison identification, and deception and stealth. She's got a knack for shadowing and surveillance, too, and he has no reservations about her future abilities as a spy. The world should be on the lookout for Kitty.

She's going to have a real, entirely structured education in New York. She's going to see the sights and take guided notes on real, interesting crime scenes and even experience the Brownstone for the first time. Maybe, with another person inside it again, it'll seem more like a home and less alarmingly quiet again.

They board the plane and London disappears into whispers of mist and smoke, the entire city engulfed by clouds and open skies. They rise above the world as giants, observing from a point of omnipotence.

He will miss all of it terribly, yet there is a terrible and dizzying relief that comes from coming back.

He's going to make things right. He has to.

Sherlock drifts off halfway through the flight, Kitty already snoring next to him, falling through memories and motions as he does.

Joan is there.

Soon, maybe he'll see her smile in person.

Soon. _Soon._

Eventually.

* * *

 **So, this was chapter two. I hope it was interesting - the season gap came out a lot longer than I thought it would be. It's just that nobody ever really goes over London, so I got kinda carried away in my descriptions to make up for the lack of structure.**

 **That, and Joan and Sherlock already had a rock solid foundation before he left. He just kinda shows up with Kitty upon his return and she's just immersed in the storyline. I wanted them to be shown becoming friends and bonding before I just insert a random girl back into the plot.**

 **I don't know. I think they have a rather cool dynamic going on that never gets explored.**

 **I can't say when the next update will be up. I think a safe estimate is sometime in the next month or so; I usually try to get at least one oneshot or chapter of a fic up monthly, so it's entirely possible. Just keep in mind, though, that I've got 3 actual books I'm writing, blogs that I've been neglecting big time, the starts of about 4 or 5 other fics, an epligoue for EMDR, two requests I should start on, and many other fics I need to continue.**

 **Like Transitions. I'm so sorry for neglecting Transitions. It will get done.**

 **I've got a lot of stuff. Sorry to go on a rant about it. Ah, the work of a writer is never done.**

 **Anyhow, here was this. Favorite or follow this if you liked it and please be sure to leave a comment. Comments are really one of the main reasons why I enjoy working on this site; they let me know I'm doing things right.**

 **Thanks for reading; see you next update!**


	3. Part 3: Transitions

**This is it. The legendary third installment, finally getting posted.**

 **Ugh. I'm happy this is getting out into the world. I feel like I've been working on this forever.**

 **Yup, no further fanfare. I'm very tired and out of clever things to say. Just read, guys, and have fun!**

* * *

Sherlock and Kitty arrive in the late afternoon, the hour edging into the dusky New York nighttime with each fleeting second. The sun sets, disappearing behind the grand skyline of towering buildings, and ever so slowly the light fades from yellow to gold to an inky blue, swallowing up even the clouds.

It's magical, almost. He missed this city, inconceivable as it may be, and even though he rarely appreciated things like this - the sunsets, the atmosphere, the architecture, and all the other elements that composed background and superfluous information - it was nice.

"It's beautiful," the teenager says, as if the sight takes her breath away. He thought she'd miss London, and she does, he can tell, but after just a few moments standing in the heart of New York, she's already fallen in love.

When he first moved, he hadn't experienced that. But now, seeing it with fresh eyes, the detective can understand what she must be feeling. After so many months across the sea, everything that had been so familiar it had bordered upon mundane was stunning, especially the Brownstone, though that house had always been special. Park benches were fields of memorium, and streetlamps and phone booths the postmarks of a better time.

It really is just what he said. He missed this, all of it, like an ache.

As he began placing in old boxes and unpacking items from the basement, he realized how much he had left behind. An entire life, rebuilt from the ashes of the last, was created here, and all throughout this city. And he thought going back to his roots would help.

The problem was, he hadn't been trying to go back to his roots, scattered and faded though they may be. Sherlock was attempting to come back to himself again, to talk himself off the ledge that was fear. A change of scenery had done little to fix the internal problems, but he's trying. He's trying to make things right again.

So, in his dreams, when he relives her expression of awe and admiration, he finally finds the words with which to respond.

"It is beautiful, isn't it?"

* * *

They shuffle around furniture in the basement, check on the bees, and try to get the electrical up and running. Even for the genius that is Sherlock Holmes, it doesn't quite work as expected.

"I want to meet her," Kitty says as they unload her clothing into an upstairs closet. He glances at her sideways.

"Joan?"

"You've talked all about her. You trained me up like you trained her. I just . . . I don't know. I've got this image of her in my head." For a moment, Kitty sets down the blouse she was hanging. "I just want to know what she was like. You miss her like crazy. She was your best friend." The genius doesn't quite understand what to make of that assessment. It's perfectly reasonable, and what his apprentice has said is true.

Joan Watson, though. He wants to see her again, to show Kitty who she is. She'd be a welcome influence on the teenager.

But he's selfish. He's just . . . he wants to be able to talk to Joan in person. However, he doesn't feel like sharing her yet. He was the only one who got to be around the blindingly brilliant side of Joan. That was _their_ partnership. And until he finds the best way to ensure she won't drop-kick the detective the next occasion they meet, Sherlock isn't ready to introduce her to his student.

It'll happen, yes. But not yet.

"You'll see Joan soon enough," he tells her, and then continues unpacking.

"But -"

"Soon enough," the genius repeats, and in his dreams he relives the way she frowns and mutters under her breath.

He should have expected the following, really. Was it really so preposterous to think that Kitty would take matters into her own hands?

* * *

Sherlock wants to strangle her.

Having Kitty _stalk_ Joan was not how he wanted to let his old partner know he was back in town.

Joan . . . God.

Joan will not be happy.

* * *

He doesn't know what he expected when he came back, but her reaction wasn't it.

Joan wanted nothing to do with him. Nothing at all - no friendship, no partnership, no _anything_.

She's angry, and doesn't want to talk.

That, at least, is understandable. Sherlock deserves that - he hurt her. Badly. And Kitty hardly helped.

But cutting him out entirely? Isn't that exactly what he went to London to avoid? He'd figured that if he ran away, he wouldn't have to deal with the way she'd slowly slip by, out of his life, trickle by trickle. And now it appears he may have lost her entirely.

So, he decides to follow her, to remind her of how well they work together, to force Joan to interact with him again. What else is there to do?

She, on her part, looks incredible. She's glowing with success and joy in what she does, and she's one of the many beloved at the station. She has taken over the role of consulting detective so well he can scarcely believe there was ever a time in which _he_ had to train _her_.

Joan doesn't need his partnership.

But he needs his best friend.

Of course, he's Sherlock Holmes, and he would rather pull out his teeth than admit that he was miserable without her. Instead, he informs her that he's in a better place, that he is responsible and has a pupil, because the genius figures she would want to hear that. She'd want to know that his disappearance was for the best, and now he is in a much healthier position to resume his life in New York.

Joan, surprisingly, treats that information with a grain of salt, taking it in with a weary exhaustion, as if he was leaving all over again. Internally, he frowns, but he says nothing. The detective sticks to the plan, and sure enough, they are making progress, no matter how much his companion would like to punch him.

When he gets home, though, he seeks out the only other girl he can talk to freely.

"Kitty, why do you think she's upset?" he asked, and she peaks her head out of her new room.

"I thought you were still mad at me," his student remarked, biting her lip. She felt bad, deep down, he must assume.

"I am, but you are, fortunately for me, female." There was little arguing with that logic. She gestured for him to go on. "So, I saw Joan today."

 _That._ That gets her attention in five seconds flat.

"And?"

"It was . . . she's still mad. That's fine. But we were talking and I told her about London. I said that I found new employment, I saw my old flat, I started teaching you, and that I wasn't so . . . clingy, anymore. I wouldn't be so dependent on her as a person. But after all that, she got upset, and I have no idea why. Kitty, just . . ." He hated not understanding things. This was torture. "I don't get it. Did I do something wrong?" The teenage girl stood in the doorway of her room for a long, long time.

" . . . You're joking, right?" she finally pressed, blinking. "Like, you didn't really say that to her, right?" He opened his mouth, then closed it.

She was _this_ close to slapping him, he believed.

"Unbelievable," she said, facial expressions bordering on incredulous. "For a genius, you can be an absolute moron, you know that?" He attempted not to stamp him foot like an impatient child.

" _What did I do_?"

"You told her you didn't need her, you didn't need New York, and that your friendship was all just business and reliance. You told Joan you replaced her and that she was just an emotional crutch in your epic time of need."

Oh.

 _Oh._

"I didn't mean that at all," he murmured, running a hand through his cropped hair. "God, I need to -"

"You honestly don't think she'll realize you didn't come to your senses on your own, right? Because she's a woman who's reasonably smart, from what I've observed." She scowled. " _Observed_. Great. But in any case, she'll think someone's forcing you to say sorry because you're an ass. And she would only be half-wrong." Kitty shuts the door without another word.

Sherlock dreams about the many, many ways he would change things, starting with simply _not_ leaving in the first place.

* * *

Kitty is sulky and acting like an angsty teenage girl.

Yes, he used the word angsty. Sadly, spending so much time with her has caused him to broaden his vocabulary towards the most nonsensical of words.

She acts like a child around Joan because she got in trouble following his old partner. It's petty and contrived, but she's young, and he'll take it with a grain of salt and move on. Joan, however, seems to think Kitty just doesn't like her.

This, of course, is absurd. Kitty has been enamored by stories of their partnership for months. She's a little jealous, and a little in awe, and a little guilty that she tried to down her mentor's best friend with single stick.

But, you know. In any event, it looked as though it would be a while before the two got along.

"A child needs both of its parents," he tells the other detective. His old partner rolls her eyes.

She is certainly not Kitty's _parent_ , Joan assures him, nor his keeper. She puts great emphasis on her lack of responsibility concerning the issue.

Well, Watson isn't part of this, is she? They're working together once more, he supposes, but that never meant she had to like it.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. He's the dumbest genius to ever roam the earth.

But then, miraculously, Kitty is looking into therapy groups for her traumas and Joan is watching over her with a protective eye, the teenager securely under her wing. Somehow, sometime when he wasn't paying attention, it seemed as though they made their peace.

Even in his dreams, he can't quite locate the common link. Sherlock must simply learn to be grateful that it happened.

* * *

Andrew is . . .

Well. He was reasonably clever, objectively attractive, possessed an amiable nature, and was generally good for Joan. He was normal, but not boring. Steady, but not predictable. And, to top it off, he was clearly crazy about Watson.

Andrew is perfect for her, on paper. Even the genius has a grudging respect for the man; hell, he might even go so far as to say he liked him. Andrew was a definite improvement from Mycroft.

Sherlock really should be happier about this development. He should. If not for himself, than for Joan, who was rather comfortable with her boyfriend.

The detective passes his snappiness off as protective instincts. He doesn't quite know what to call them, though.

At night, he dreams about a Joan that is single and a world without Andrew. When he awakes, everything is the same as always, and her relationship remains a reality.

* * *

They are a group again, he thinks.

This is the closest to a functional family he's ever had, and it's an absolute mess. Every single day is a new murder and a new conflict and a new squabble to be had. Kitty is Kitty, as per usual, and Joan is exasperated by his pompous airs during the few times a case he displays them. Their trust is being re-forged on the buried ashes of months ago, and though it's slow going, it is potent.

The three of them, with the addition of the department itself, are a wreck of epic proportions. But they are making it work, strengthening their resolves bit by bit, and each new dream gives him hope that one day there will be no 'before London' and 'after'. There will simply be good days and bad days, wealths of work and droughts, and the weeks will blur into a continuous stream in which all will be forgiven.

One day, this will be ancient history. Until then there is progress.

* * *

They argue, as they often do nowadays. Joan believes he doesn't like her boyfriend, while this couldn't be farther from the truth.

Sherlock Holmes is actually feeling something akin to jealously. Joan spends time with him, her friend with problems as far as the eye can see, during work and cases and because it's part of her job. Andrew gets all the moments in between, moments he used to be a part of because she wanted him to be there, too.

Of course, that was before London, wasn't it?

And whose fault was that?

He tells her, rather insistently, that he approves of Andrew and only wants her to be happy, as they yell at eachother in the kitchen. Her eyes go wide, and for a fleeting minute, her anger is subdued.

"I kind of want to hug you right now," she finally says, eyes slightly glossed over.

He rebuffs her, of course. He doesn't know how to handle human contact any more than he knows how to deal with small children or idiots (which, honestly, tend to be one in the same). However, in the dark underbelly of the night, the genius allows himself that one comfort and wishes he weren't who he was.

* * *

Kitty has faced her tormentors and fled the city.

He will miss her far more than he thought possible. When on earth did the great Sherlock Holmes become so soft?

Maybe it isn't so strange, though. She was the closest to a daughter he'll probably ever get to know.

Still, as he wonders about where his young pupil is, what she's doing, if she's alright, and how she is getting by, he has to restrain himself from tracking her down or crying, as silly as it sounds. Even while asleep.

* * *

Andrew is dead.

Joan is blaming herself and going insane, slipping into a thick, cutting, agonizing depression.

Sherlock has been there before. He wishes, more than anything, that he could ease her pain.

She is a good person, as was Andrew. Neither of them deserved this.

His dreams are slightly more tolerable. In his dreams, she isn't hurting so badly.

* * *

When she asked to move back in, at first he thought he was still asleep. He had never imagined that Joan would want to come back to the Brownstone, and certainly not under such extenuating circumstances, but he supposed it made sense. Soon her suitable apartment was sold and gone and her things were back upstairs.

Sherlock loves that she's back. He can better take care of her while she's living under the same roof.

However, he wishes that she had returned home under better circumstances.

One day, he realizes with a start that Joan has given up on being normal. It wasn't exactly a hard decision to arrive at. She's not talking about regular things, like appointments and her friends and shopping and groceries, or any of the mundane topics she'd slip into their conversations. Now it is only about the extravagant, such as new lock-picking techniques, interesting cold cases, or curious product sales around the city. His partner is simply sick of trying and trying to fit in, to live simply, when everything resembling sanity that she works so hard to build up keeps getting snatched away. After all, Andrew was gone, and while they weren't the perfect couple, they were close. He adored Joan, and he had made her feel better than 'special'; he had made her feel regular, worthy of a functional relationship with someone who loved her.

And now he was gone, and so was that sentiment.

When Sherlock sees his partner, curled up in his living room again, pouring over files and cryptogram novels, the detective does something he's never done before.

The genius leans over and holds her hand, running a reassuring thumb over her knuckles.

"Joan, you can be upset. You can be angry. But don't just throw in the towel, or whatever that saying is," the detective tells her, scooting himself forwards to better look her in the eyes. "We're here for you. No matter what."

It takes a while, but she comes around.

She nods, once, and shakes her head, trying to clear it of the imposing numbness. With a shaky breath, she closes the book and folds the papers neatly back into the manila envelope.

"What's the point of it all? I see my friends, my mom, and it's like . . ." she sighs, running her free hand through her hair. "They're all waiting for me to fall apart and start crying. But I . . . I want to, sometimes, but . . ." She's struggling with the words, he can tell. "I'm not like them. Not anymore. I just want to stop feeling _useless_ , but they all think I'm going to huddle in a ball and melt. I can't _breathe_ while they stare and wonder when I'll break down. I need to do something, something that makes a difference, or else I'll think about everything I've lost with Andrew and then . . . . I don't know. I haven't gotten that far."

"Cryptology isn't the answer," he says idly, taking everything in. "And neither are unsolved mysteries."

"They're something other than me crying in my room," the woman mumbles, casting her gaze to his fingers, still stroking hers. "You probably didn't want to hear about this."

"Of course I did. You've heard all of my worst sob-stories, it's only fair that you would reciprocate." Silence coats the room, thick and languid, though not uncomfortable. Just serious and profound.

"Thank you," she replies after another long while.

"There's nothing to be thankful for, Watson."

The next day, she still remains at the Brownstone, flitting about with little to do. He has no qualms about distracting her.

However, the day afterwards, she goes to a lunch with her brother. When she comes back, everything about her, from the way she walks to her eyes to her stance, is inexplicably lighter.

Sherlock dreams about brushing spirals into her skin for many occasions to come. He likes to think some of that lightness had been due to him, for once.

* * *

They both had passed out in the living room. Joan, as they were sitting next to eachother, had obviously fallen onto his shoulder. Her usually impeccable attire was wrinkled, her blouse starting to slide up her stomach, and he snorted with amusement before he could stop himself. Joan Watson, not put together? What an impossible thought.

Her head rested precariously on his shoulder, threatening to drop into his lap at any second, and her hair was spilling out of its careful bun.

She was warm. Really, really warm. And quite comfortable, surprisingly. Though he usually did his best to avoid other human contact at all time, this he did not mind.

Why? Why was Watson always the exception?

Regrettably, before he could find a suitable answer, his comrade awoke, dazed and confused and very hungry.

He tries not to dream about it, but it replays on loop for weeks.

* * *

When they receive an unmarked letter in the mail, vague in detail and simple in scrawl, Sherlock nearly weeps in relief.

At the very end of the odd note, after all, is a distinctive 'K', and Watson cannot help but smile despite everything that has happened.

"Kitty's going to be okay, isn't she?" she smirks, shaking her head.

"With us as her guides? How could she not be?" the genius tells her.

They're still recovering, the both of them, but it's the little things like these that give them hope.

* * *

He thinks of Irene in the moments when Joan is not watching.

It's endless torture.

He hates Moriarty with every fiber of his being, but he'll never be rid of her ghost, it seems.

He dreams, briefly, about decidedly-not-Irene Adler's shoulders. Most men would say her best features were her delicate, slender hands, or her long-lashed eyes, or even her ever-curling lips. Sherlock's always loved her shoulders.

His own skin was inked over with swirling lines, but her shoulders were pale and blank and yet full of secrets. The hunch of her body revealed her resolve, the straightening of shoulders was her perseverance spelled out in movements. They gave her away, every time, and they were endlessly interesting despite their lack of decoration.

The only things on her shoulders were freckles like stars, lined out in chains on a creamy morning sky. He would trace these constellations, making moonbeams out of the circles on her skin and galaxies out of dots. It was, quite possibly, the most fascinating pastime he'd ever experienced.

During one of those impossibly perfect nights, when he hadn't know that Irene was an illusion, he traces over her shoulders again with sleepy fingers, labeling the planets and stars.

Then, suddenly, it's not Irene but Joan lying next to him. She's on her side, wearing her traditional pajama choice of a t shirt and shorts, and she's snoring lightly, the sun pouring in through gossamer curtains. There is a gentle silence, and he is drawing swirls on her arm, pressing designs into her skin as though he was trying to imprint them.

Sherlock pulls away, as he often does in situations like this, and though not-Joan shifts in her sleep, lips twitching downwards as if some small part of her notices his withdraw, she doesn't wake. He stills, waiting for her to open her eyes and see him, laying next to her in a bed that is clearly not his own.

Seconds fly by, and then minutes. There is nothing indicating that his subconscious manifestation of Joan is going to rouse anytime soon.

Finally, he resolves to relax again, shifting his thoughts from the tension of discovery to a more simplistic question of 'why'. Why he would imagine up Joan like this, why he's there with her in the first place, why he felt the need to make swirls on her arms.

She moves, slightly, head ducking a little farther forwards. Hair falls into her face, as he's observed many a time during their mornings in the Brownstone. Normally, he would ignore this. In this instance, though, his hand develops a mind of its own, reaching out and swiping the strands back behind her ear.

This, unfortunately, is what cinches it.

His partner delicately shudders, waking up in a minuscule jolt, and she groggily opens her eyes.

Ah. So _this_ is when the panicked freezing should have occurred.

"Sherlock?" she asks quietly, rubbing one of her eyes and fighting back a yawn.

"Joan," he responds, as he has no idea what to do. The genius is very, very relieved he hasn't shared this experience with Joan outside of the dreamscape yet, as it would have been rather deprecating on the status of their relationship, though this gap of information leaves him somewhat defenseless now.

"Mmm, it's past dawn for once. You slept in," Joan mutters, instead of the proper scolding he most certainly must deserve. She moves closer, pressing her head against his chest and pulling his arm around her again. "Ten more minutes, though, okay? Then I'll get up." Dumbly he nods, and after a grand total of one hundred and forty seven seconds - he timed it, and took careful note of her relaxed heart rate and surprising ease with the situation - she is out cold again.

Joan's a warm, welcome weight though, and as he looks down at her sleeping form, tucked next to him like a human puzzle piece, he finds himself content.

Sherlock cannot remember the last time he was content. He thinks it might have been with Irene, but the drugs made it harder to remember the fine details. They continue to make everything blur at the corners.

Still, she is Watson, and he resolves to continue drawing lazy squiggles across her skin since there is nothing else to be done. They loop and twist and curl together, and if the colors leaked had from his imagination onto her limb she would be a vision of ink.

Eventually, he too falls victim to slumber again, and he tightens his grip on her as he goes under.

Sherlock reawakens in his home, within his own bed.

Joan is nowhere to be found.

For once, he wishes he was still sleeping.

* * *

Very little made him truly happy, but Joan? She made him _himself_. She brought him back to life.

Sherlock tries to do the same for her, and little by little, and then maybe all at once, he began to drag her back.

The sky is blue, murders occur, and Joan is better. She's slightly fragile, slightly saddened, but they're working through that. She sees friends, goes to awful movies, visits bookstores, and does other common activities. She's reverting into peace and contentment again, despite the looming thoughts about her boyfriend's death.

She is Joan once more, or very nearly, and she's _wonderful._

Damn, how he's missed her.

* * *

She's in the Brownstone, not doing anything particularly special. Joan Watson is cracking open an egg, one of two, and dropping it unceremoniously into a pan. He's brewed coffee and is listening to her discuss a novel that she's read, in her rare spare time, while she sprinkles salt absentmindedly onto their breakfast. He sips the freshly made caffeinated beverage, nodding at her story in the right places, and observing how she stands on her tip-toes to reach the top shelf of the cabinets.

"Do you require assistance, Watson?" he questions, and with a small huff she grabs something. It was jam, apparently, and it was unopened, sitting out of reach mostly because he'd forgotten it was there.

"Not now, Sherlock," she sighs, pulling toast out of the toaster. He assumes the 'not now' refers to his constant shows of self importance - she's not exactly wrong to say that. "Strawberry jam?"

"Please," the genius replies, finally getting up and pulling two plates out of the cupboard. He hands them to her and she places them down next to the stove. "More coffee?"

"Of course." She flips her egg, mumbling something about it not being done enough for her tastes on top, and she slides them both onto their respective plates. It is when he has finished pouring and she has commenced with the buttering and jam-applicating that his partner looks away from what she is doing, gazing instead at him.

Joan has the oddest way of looking through him. She sees his thoughts and his emotional state and his worries just by taking in his face.

"You're smiling. You seem really happy," she finally says, putting the toast with his food. "Any reason why?"

Sherlock hadn't noticed he was grinning at all.

"None," he answers, because that is safe, and he sits next to her and eats. Comfortable silence lulls into the room, and he watches Joan all the while.

She's very pretty, isn't she? Even when she's doing nothing at all.

He dreams about that. He dreams about infinite mornings with infinite breakfasts and wonders when Joan became so integral.

* * *

At night, he visualizes the rainy, billowing streets of New York, caught in a torrential downpour. He and Watson had to leave for a case and she was shifting her shoulders beneath her coat, frowning from the damp and the cold already. Her ponytail was caught by a scarf, half in and half out, and her umbrella was shaking against the wind.

He had fleetingly thought, back when they had first made this memory only a few days ago, that he could kiss her and perhaps she wouldn't mind. She was standing right there, very nearby, and she was very distraught by the weather as it was.

At the time, he had suppressed that traitorous notion and packed it away, instead only muttering a faint 'after you, Watson.'

Not now.

Now, in the confines of his own brain, he leans forward and closes the space between them. Lips meet lips, eyes meet eyes.

It is electric.

She's pressing back, smiling, moving, and so is he, suddenly dizzy and tingling and going completely blank for the first time in his life. There's no up or down or rain or sun or even a silly, flimsy umbrella; there is only him, and Joan, and the impossibly warm, fond feeling in the pit of his stomach. There's only this, forever, on repeat.

His kiss with her is the most amazing, world-shaking kiss he's ever had.

The worst part is that it isn't real.

* * *

He's not in love with Joan Watson.

He's not.

He's not falling in love with the way she complains about his interruptions or how she walks like she doesn't care who dares to get in her way or the fact that she likes sleeping in until noon on weekends.

He's not. He tells his brain and his heart and the two of them combined that it just wasn't happening.

(But that's not true, isn't it? He was a goner for days and months and years, for as long as he's known her, because Joan Watson was incredible.

And please, a fall? He's already experienced the Reichenbach. No, it was a series of subtle crashes onto the pavement, a stroll around the block, and a head-on collision with a moving truck. Sherlock's a mess, though, and surely 'falling in love', however the Holmes seem to do it, would be no different.)

* * *

She smiles at him, rather often, and sometimes he wonders if she feels the same.

His subconscious romanticizes the notion all too often. It's an incredible distraction.

Like now, for instance, when he is speaking and she's next to him, placing a hand on his arm as a silent show of support during a meeting at the bureau. Their chairs are closely positioned together, nearly touching, and Joan glances at him sideways, ready to jump in if he needs a backup opinion.

It's nothing out of the ordinary. It's nothing new. But he's become hyper-aware of every little thing she does recently and now _everything_ about his partner seems special.

Then he wakes up with Joan inches away, shaking him back into reality.

"I let you sleep for a while because you needed the rest, but it's been eight hours and I think I've made a breakthrough," she says, clutching a stack of pictures closely. "See this man? He's the personal assistant of our lead, but he's also been sighted just outside the other crime scenes. Here, he's dressed as a cleaner, but he's the right height, hair type, and build, and once we run these pictures through and set a lookout for this guy I think we'll be able to verify this theory and stage an arrest." Sherlock blinks slowly, taking the photos. He must admit, there is a striking resemblance.

"Good work as always, Watson," he replies, scrubbing a hand over his face. "It's morning?"

"Yeah, I've been up all night."

"Alright. I'll make pancakes," the consultant responds, getting up out of the chair he had slumped in and venturing into the kitchen.

"Don't you want to jump on this as soon as possible? It's not like you to leave something as important as this unattended." He snorted, already pulling things out of the cabinets.

"You've been up for nearly two days straight, Joan, and I know how much you hate staying up. The least I can do is make you pancakes before I go catch a serial killer."

"No, I'm fine. I can go, too, just let me get my - "

" - Pajamas on and go to bed, Joan. You need to sleep." She scrutinized him, eyes narrowed, before sighing and walking back up the stairs.

By the time he was nearing completion, she arrived back on the main floor, clad in sweatpants that were far too baggy and a t shirt that was at least a decade old.

"Thank you," she tells him, squeezing his arm.

"Thanks for letting me," he eventually combats her with. Being with Joan is much like breathing, for him - he's lucky to be here with her at all.

He sleeps, again, after the murderer is behind bars and he comes back to the Brownstone. Joan had waited up for him, knowing that she was too tired to be of much use in the field but wanting to be there, lucid, when he returned. He recounted the not-too-thrilling encounter of cornering the killer while he was in the public restroom, which made Joan smirk if nothing else, and they ambled away half an hour before Joan nodded off, right there on the couch.

He pulls a spare blanket over top her shoulders, watching it slip down twice before wisening up and tucking it beneath her chin. Sherlock then passes out on the chair adjacent to hers, so as to make sure she was alright before he fell asleep.

Nothing happens. He's adrift again.

He recounts the day, and it is all the same save for a few details.

When Joan says thank you, she hugs him from behind, and when she eventually goes to sleep, she does so in his bed as he doddles invisible designs on her arms.

He wonders, rather often, if she dreams the same dreams.

* * *

 **So, here's this. I really hope it was alright - I've been meaning to post this for so long. Here's finally some domestic randomness, guys.**

 **I can't promise when the next installment will be out, but it should be within the next two months or so, tops, if I don't procrastinate.**

 **Ha. I'm bad at things like scheduling, but whatever.**

 **See you next time and have a great day!**


	4. Part 4: Thus A Beginning

**Hey, guys! Sorry this is late, I was super busy. A friend and I have been writing a Mortal Instruments story that is so freaking long at this point (seriously, not even exaggerating, it's grown to 37k already and it's still expanding with every damn second) the plot is consuming my life. She's good at writing down the broad swoops and I edit in all the little details, fleshing out all the concepts that need adding to. It's a lot of fun, getting to help write her initial story, and it gives me a really good opportunity to practice world-building on a piece people will potentially see and get to comment on. Anyways, it's been a big undertaking and the story is only getting more and more complex (as are the romantic subplots, but that's another can of worms) and between this and trying to write for other story chapters, dealing with someone plagiarizing one of my older fics, starting up an exercising routine like a responsible person (TM), writing my own personal short stories and novels, and doing endless academic assignments, it's been a challenge. But here is this, and please forgive my delay.**

 **It's a lot of fluff. It's about 99.9999% pure fluff for the sake of fluff. Joan and Sherlock have suffered enough as it is by season three, and I think that in my fictitious world they deserve a bit of a break. Their transition from friends to more isn't necessarily easy - when are things _ever_ easy and clear-cut for them, I would ask you - but it is my take on 'them'. I attempted to fill it out and make the jump as seamless and relatively believable as I could in the amount of words and time I was given, so I hope everyone will strap in tight and enjoy the final chapter! **

* * *

Joan had yet to notice the few shifts in his regular behavior, despite being with him nearly constantly. This was a direct result of his incredible abilities of discretion and self-awareness, which he so rarely got the chance to utilize.

Whenever he began staring, pondering the curve of her neck or the cut of her hair, as all idle romantics do unwittingly, he reminded himself to glance away at stationary objects every five seconds, or to only train his gaze on his partner when she was thoroughly distracted or positioned at the outskirts of his peripheral vision. Thus the detective never caught him looking, and hardly suspected him of doing so in the first place.

If he brushed against her fingertips more whilst passing plates at breakfast or handing over texts during cases, he made certain that they occupied less time. Concentration of touch was inversely related to number of moments in contact, so if he decreased one the other would increase, as humans possessed a very mathematical concept of platonic interaction. In the end, even basic skin-to-skin interaction boiled down to numbers perceived, and his were always mentally calculated to be almost unnoticeable. This was rapid deduction at its finest.

And on the off chance he found himself smiling uncontrollably, no reason behind it at all, that too could be masked by excuses. He dreamt of old memories and daydreams every night; he had a veritable plethora of experiences to pretend to have reminisced over, to feign happiness with. Joan need not be informed that his odd bouts of fondness were due entirely to her.

In these ways and countless others Sherlock Holmes managed to conceal his unfortunate infatuation with his best friend and colleague in the same swoop he misled criminals with: basic misdirection.

Sherlock had just came to terms with the fact that he, a creature of solitude and serious issues, desired something more than just a crime to unravel. The genius wanted sleepy mornings, joint researches, idiotic squabbles in the kitchen. He wanted affection, understanding, and trust, something to take with through life. He wanted his partner to be his partner in every aspect, which was an unusual longing that simply hadn't cropped up since Irene (Moriarty, his brain always supplies, and since his revelation with Joan it seems so much easier to correct the term) had died and he decided love was not for a man like himself. But, as he was so often reminding himself, Joan was the exception in every conceivable way. She could tear him apart like no one else.

Watson was one of a kind. This, among so many other reasons, was why he didn't deserve her.

This, among so many other reasons, was why he wanted her anyways.

Yet the genius would not be able to let go of his fellow consulting detective again. He would crumple in on himself without her, which was exactly why he could not simply grab her and go bleeding hearts.

Being in love with Joan Watson and not being able to do anything about it was absolute hell, but loosing her entirely would be so much worse. So he would continue to play the role of the ornery and illusive intelligencer, ever the thespian, and privately wonder whether or not Joan would ever feel the same.

* * *

After the sudden realization that he was infatuated with Joan, one would naturally assume that things got easier. He would be able to make sense of past jealousies and angers, given this new light, and so many things would become less confusing.

This would be one's natural conclusion. And, despite its nearly flawless rationale, that assumption would be wrong.

Sherlock had no idea just how complex and romantically frustrating being in love with someone so close to his heart could be.

To take a prime example, there was today, in which the two detectives were transferred in an armored police vehicle with the rest of the precinct squadrant as they chased a serial killer down on wheels. Due to the impossibly cramped quarters and the constant jostling of the truck whilst in pursuit, during which they drove over a truly staggering number of potholes, Joan inevitably ended up in his lap. This was far preferable to holding Bell, as he was on Sherlock's other side and it really could have gone either way, he must acknowledge. However, having her on top of him, tightly gripping his arms which had secured her waist, black hair escaping her ponytail and smelling of jasmine, hardly helped his sanity. It was a tense three minutes of professional torture in which he had to both hold her as close as possible to avoid any unfortunate slams against the walls and maintain a blank, impassive demeanor about the matter, as if this wouldn't be one of the events he'd dream about for nights to come.

And last week, when he had finally dropped asleep next to the dining table and she had been the first thing he saw, gently smoothing a hand over his shoulder blades and providing a strong cup of coffee. She had smiled, the sunlight illuminating the careful divets between her dark lashes, and began talking about what they were going to do that day and old unsolved mysteries she had read about and just about anything she thought he might find interesting. It was so pleasant, just like a normal morning he might alter in his mindscape, that he nearly forgot the difference between night visions and reality. The genius was leaning forward to knit her fingers with his, almost subconsciously, when he remembered exactly where he was and why this was not allowed. So he diverted his trajectory towards the caffeinated beverage and sipped as she spoke, nodding in all the right places and trying not to be so pathetic. Holmes did not pine like lost puppies. They went after what they wanted, who they needed.

But he could not. And so Sherlock suffered.

Last month, too, was terrible. They went grocery shopping, as even the great intellectuals of our time have nutritional needs to be met, and as they approached the entirely too long line for the register, Joan's phone rang furiously. For once, it was from one of her relatives as opposed to the station. Her mother's car had broken down and the older woman desperately needed a ride lest she lose some doctor's appointment she had scheduled, or something to that general effect, and Joan had winced and hung up, asking if he could handle checking out on his own.

Sherlock answered with an immediate yes, of course. He was a grown adult and was more than capable of covering the perils of buying discount milk and bread without supervision and he told her just that. Though she had invaded every other aspect of his existence, _grocery shopping_ was a task he could accomplish by himself. Joan, at the time, had sighed with relief and thanked him far too profoundly for remaining to scan their purchases, leaving the store to go pick up her parent. The detective, for his part, watched her leave, mentally following every single step until she had passed through the doors again.

"It's nice to see that chivalry isn't entirely dead," the woman behind him had said kindly, jarring him from his thoughts. From one look it was evident that she had been married for a substantial period of time, around forty years, and would soon be approaching her late seventies. She enjoyed the relics of an older, more sophisticated era, such as classical jazz and modest clothing. Her hands were grass stained and wrinkled, meaning she had been an avid gardener who loved the outdoors, and based on the foreign cut of her jacket and the style of footwear she had selected, she had traveled often in her youth and remembered the experience fondly. The typical older citizen.

"Oh?" he had replied, assuming that she, as most people her age did, would lose interest in needless conversation quickly. However, she smiled and nodded instead.

"Well, not many husbands nowadays would have the patience to sit in a tedious line at a convenience store just to help their wives with family maters. Young men in these times, they always want things done instantly. I like taking note of the rare exceptions," she responded, pushing around her sparsely filled cart. Most of the space was occupied with marked down tissue boxes. "Keep it up and I'm sure you'll be together for the long run." She winked, then. "She's beautiful, by the way."

Sherlock should have corrected her, right then and there. He could have ignored her, or laughed it off, or even rattled off his many deductions in an attempt to force the stranger to back off. Instead, he found himself agreeing.

"That she is." As he checked out, bundling up a truly ridiculous amount of plastic bags without Joan's vehicle to load them into and with nearly twenty blocks to walk, he had begun to grin.

This was so out of character for him. Watson made him do unbelievably stupid things, things he would never usually do, even when she wasn't there in the flesh.

All of this, all of these instances, marked trouble for the detective. What was possibly most troubling about this was, other than a fierce conviction not to ruin their carefully reconstructed bond, he could not find a single thing that he could necessarily complain about.

He dreams about all of it, about what it would mean, and pondered over whether or not the pratfall was approaching yet. And then his thoughts devolved to those of him and her, working old cases, and he cannot be arsed to care anymore.

* * *

It's rather rare that Sherlock Holmes finds himself in a situation that renders him helpless, but there he was, tied to a very sturdy lead pipe, feet and hands bound, in a room so absolutely dark he cannot begin to glimpse the world around him. In addition to three layers of very tightly wound ropes, there was a pair of strong meal wires wrapped around his wrists, complete with a padlock.

Yes, a padlock of all things. Which, of course, he cannot make out the printed combination on, given the lack of light.

Sherlock was rather split on this issue. He didn't know whether to be proud of this criminal for finally providing someone who kidnapped him with some semblance of efficiency for once or progressively more concerned about the rapidly decreasing odds of achieving freedom again. It's a rather close match, and the jury is still out over which side of the issue is most pressing.

However, this isn't to say that he was completely helpless. His ankles, though the process had chaffed horribly, had escaped their confines and were now resting on the floor, his toes groping around blindly for anything that might be of use. Of course, he already had a good idea of where he was, geographically speaking. With the occasional rumbling of an unidentified machine somewhere behind him, most likely a boiler, and the faint rush of water through pipes that could only be lead, it was obvious that he was located in the basement of an older building, probably kept in the very back corner of an ancient mechanical room. The amount of water being pumped through despite the dusty and presumably unchecked electrical and heating faculties suggested that his band of kidnappers stored up here purely due to remoteness and convenience. This furthered the possibility that the place where he resided was in fact a house, relatively large but set away from the city, unassuming due to age yet close enough to the city to be a useful hideout. However, their lack of actual prep work suggested it wasn't a central base, merely a transitional point, and therefore people must filter in and out only at their own necessity. As previously stated, close but not too close. It couldn't be more than an hour from New York proper, and any less than thirty minutes would compromise the other essentials of his theory. Since, though he had been rendered unconscious throughout the journey, no smells of the sea lingered on his clothing, a boat ride had not been part of the experience. The lower east side of Long Island, then, most likely. Wantagh fit the bill, as it matched up more-or-less with location and was a veritable hamlet, remote enough to justify its own means. The outskirts of Elmont, too, might do the trick. Mineola might also work, but he was less fond of that theory. No, the edges of Wantagh were probably his best assumption at a location.

This, of course, would make little difference if he couldn't unlock the idiotic clasp around his wrists, but without light to see the actual keys on the insipid lock (he hadn't the foggiest whether they were symbols, numbers, letters, or a combination of the possible three; attempting to deduce the answer with absolutely nothing to go on or feel out would be a waste of time, unless the divine power of luck happened to intervene) or any solid information to go off of, the padlock would have to simply remain put for now. It had been an interesting day, a riveting chase, and things had not gone so well for Sherlock, but at least it was better than staying at home, bored off his seat. No one likes being taken hostage, but at least it staved off the boredom of being _ordinary_ , which as a state of perpetual existence was admittedly far worse.

He had just given up on search the floor for aid - there was little else but dust, anyhow - and had begun to work his way out of the initial strands of rope when a fierce banging on the door arose. Or, at least, what he had to assume was a door; he was tucked around a corner in a dark mechanical, after all, and couldn't make out a hing from his position. Still, the genius tensed and made quick work of another knot, feeling a pang of pleasure as he nimbly pulled apart the strand with only his feet and without the advantage of sight. His endless practices had paid off.

The noise was increasing in its volume, filling the pitch black with a nearly rhythmic series of thuds. It couldn't be a rescue, could it? By his rough estimation, taking into account his possible abduction time and the elapsed minutes in the basement, it had been only somewhere between five and eight hours. And, given the general inefficiency of local authorities, there was no way they could logically deduce the route of transport like he could.

And then the room flooded with bright yellow, sending the glimmers of gossamer strings of light his way. From around the bend they cast sharp shadows upon the floor, and never before had fluorescent lighting seemed so welcoming.

"Sherlock!" she called, a gun held out in front of her as she walked through the basement, and just the sound of her voice was enough to know.

Of course. How else would he have been located so quickly?

"Here, Joan," he replied weakly, trying not to laugh in relief. She quickly came, briefly checking for further hostiles, of which there were obviously none remaining, and she slid away her gun, looking him over.

"Are you hurt? How are you feeling?" his partner said, quickly patting him down for any immediate sign of blood or broken bones. Her eyes darted over his features, at first simply checking for bruises or scrapes and then catching his gaze. "You're here."

"I'm alive," he nodded, and it felt as if that moment weighed so much more than that of two people, completely unattached. He couldn't stop _staring_ , relieved that she was there at all. " . . . Could you possibly -"

"Yes, of course," the black haired woman answered immediately, pulling off his leftover tie and glancing over the lock. In seconds, she had the combination and was pulling his hands free.

"How did you . . ."

"It was written in silver sharpie on the back," she shrugged, hefting him upwards. "My brother sometimes did that. Nobody ever looks there, it's a guarantee that you'll never loose the number, and it's not like any hostages could make out anything in the dark." These were good points. Still idiotic, had he been able to see, but good.

"Thank you, Joan," he told her, rubbing his wrists to improve circulation. "Truly." She shook her head.

"Please don't thank me. We let you down."

 _. . . What?_

"Joan, you've never let me down."

"You got kidnapped because you went in first and I took too long to get there. It should have been me," Joan sighed, rubbing her temples. "I didn't - I messed up and -"

"You found me, didn't you? And rather quickly, I have to admit," the genius reassured, and though he usually never did, he knew that she needed him. He hugged her, pulling arms around her shorter form, and though she tensed initially she quickly melted into his side. When Sherlock Holmes decides to embrace someone, you might as well enjoy it in its entirety while it lasts.

"Sherlock, I was scared out of my mind," the ex-doctor whispered, the words barely audible. "I didn't even know - the whole _department_ didn't even know - if you were dead or alive. I didn't think so, I would have _felt_ something, but -"

"I'm here, Watson," he shushed her, "untied and breathing, because of you. All else is as follows."

"I can't lose you too," she replied, head buried into his rather ragged jacket - it would be going in the laundry as soon as they arrived back at the Brownstone. "I, just, my mom slipping, my dad had been gone, Andrew died and - not you, too." Slowly, gently, he rubbed circles into her back and said nothing, just held his partner and let her come back to normalcy.

After a while, the division finished their work upstairs and came to check on Joan, at which point they discovered something truly incredible: Sherlock Holmes, engaging in physical contact without provocation. At the insistence of Gregson, not a word against them was spoken. They deserved some peace.

As they arrived back, it was as if nothing had changed. The world circled on, the sun set as always, and the tea was prepared and dinner eaten over the great oaken table. Throughout it all, scarcely a word was spoken. And then, out of the careful quiet, the silent relief of Joan simply grateful that her impossible partner was alive, came a voice.

"You're all I have, too," he told her, squeezing her hand over the ancient wood. She, surprised once more, could not help but stare at his fingers as though something strange and yet eerily familiar had occurred. When she turned back to him, her gaze was fixed on everything, as though she was seeing him for the first time all over again. Sherlock was stripped to his fundamentals, letting Joan take in all she cared to see, good and bad, and he tightened his grip.

The genius didn't know what he was expecting. Perhaps a smile, perhaps a nod of agreement - nothing too big, but an understanding made by two people who knew eachother better than anyone else. Instead, Watson looked at him as if he was someone else entirely, someone incredible, awe-inspiring, dependable, and compassionate. Someone worthy of giving her fragile trust to, someone else she had yet to fully meet. Her eyes cut straight to his core and further still, to the deep recesses closed out since Moriarty (he did it automatically, for once - perhaps he is starting to get better after all).

He wanted her to look at him that way all the time, every day. He wanted to _be_ something miraculous, something worthy of that trust, for her.

Damn, he hoped he could become that.

"Thanks," she breathes suddenly, and she knits her digits through his, returning to the remainder of her food and sagging with the weight of the day. Once and a while she glances at him, as if making sure he is real, and he lets her without complaint. Joan continues to have that spark of _something other_ in her eyes, and it's distracting in a good way.

When he sleeps, he dreams about her stepping out of the light and freeing him of his chains, and Sherlock thinks self-indulgently that she has saved him in more ways than one.

* * *

They continue to receive notes from Kitty once every month or two, always at random and always relatively short. They never discuss where she is, they never comment on the weather or the task she is performing. Instead, she briefly go over how she is, physically and mentally, her regular annoyances, her frustration with humanity and her few concerns. For the most part, given the circumstances, they reveal that she is free, and for Kitty that translates to 'more or less happy'. In subtext, deep beneath the words written, she clearly misses them and worries about how they are fairing.

Sherlock would write back, if he could. Alas, he cannot, and he expects that Kitty keeps tabs on them anyways. She is not the kind to develop attachment easily, but when she does, the teenager is impossible to shake.

Joan keeps volunteering at the homeless shelter on weekends for an hour at a time. She figures that there are a lot of people like Kitty Winters in the world who could use a leg up. After a little deliberation, Sherlock finds himself silently slipping in the vehicle's passenger seat one afternoon, buckling in and glancing at her expectantly. His partner is obviously skeptical, as the genius isn't known for his vast philanthropic streak, but she soon finds herself grinning and slowly backing out of the Brownstone.

"Are you sure?" she asks simply once they are there, pulling the keys from the ignition. He shrugs.

"You seem to be," is the consulting detective's only reply, and so they pile out of the car and walk in together, matching step for step.

In her next secretive missive, Kitty mentions that she has taken up a brief volunteer shift at a local soup kitchen. The girl claims that she 'takes after her guardians'.

Joan smiles in _that_ way, the way that women do when they look so touched they might want to cry but don't want the tears to fall. Sherlock simply smirks, as this is proof that somehow she's watching them anyways.

* * *

Joan isn't kidnapped, she's just . . . away.

It feels like the same thing, though.

Whenever Joan is away from the Brownstone for any extended period of time, it feels like there is something missing. He feels restless, off-balance, irritable and easily distracted. Joan was always excellent at focusing him, to say nothing of all the other services she unknowingly performed for him on a daily basis, and without her around Sherlock is off center.

He _would_ text her incessantly. He would. But sadly she is going on a brief trip with her brother and her sister-in-law, and it looks as if she's having a great time. She took a few pictures and sent them over to keep him from worrying too badly, but it's hardly a reprieve. His partner is still too far to reach, still away from home, and it is driving him mad.

He has already begged Gregson for a new case to examine, accompanied Bell to a crime scene, been to the morgue twice, and pestered Alfredo for an afternoon. It's barely been three days and he has already exhausted all of his defenses against the forces of boredom and insanity. The woman was only to be gone for a week, so he should be able to tough it out for that long. He was an adult, and he didn't need constant companionship in order to function.

And yet, here he was, glaring at the door for all he was worth, wondering if his fellow detective would magically spring out of it and into the real world.

It's sad, really. There's no other way to put it.

Just as he's about to renounce the world of the living, he hears the familiar ring of his cellphone and pulls it out with undisguised relief. There, as if by a miracle, is the name 'Joan', illuminated on the screen.

"Hello?" he says, the sentences falling out into the empty room and settling in the air.

"Good, you're alive," comes a voice on the other end, warm and familiar. "I was really worried. Honestly, I was expecting a swarm of messages when I turned my phone back on, but nothing. Is anything wrong?"

She knows him too well. Far, far too well for comfort.

"Nothing, nothing, I just didn't want to bother you," he mumbled, acutely aware of her absence even as they spoke. "You seem to be having a good time."

"I mean, I am. It's been great. I'm just used to constantly hearing from you and the radio silence was making me uneasy." She sighed over the line, probably kneading her forehead. "I've kinda gotten used to a torrential downpour of comments on every single thing that happens. I really didn't expect to miss it."

Oh.

 _Oh_.

"Sherlock? Are you dead?" she voiced uncertainly, confused as to where exactly the sudden silence was coming from. "Is someone there?"

"No, I'm alright," he answers, clearing his throat and feeling lighter than he had in days. "I'll make sure to pester you incessantly tomorrow. I requested another case."

"Oh, what's it about?"

"Right now, it's a triple homicide . . ."

He ends the call after a grand three hours, at which point Joan's sister-in-law had told his partner that she was almost done with dinner. He voices his goodbyes, bids them goodnight, and hangs up, thinking that perhaps he will survive another four days of alone-time after all.

* * *

She isn't surprised when Sherlock invades a luncheon with her mother. Perhaps Joan should have been, but he's invaded all other area of her life thus far, so why should this one have been any different? Sherlock did in fact have contact with Watson's parent on a semi-frequent basis, as he wanted to establish a good relationship with the woman who raised his partner. So yes, crashing a meet-up wasn't as strange as it should have been.

It's unexpected in the broadest sense, but they manage to have a good time. Mrs. Watson is kind and clever and smiles at them in a knowing way across the table as he prattles on and his companion treats him with her usual method of detached yet fond exasperation. She has seen her daughter happy before. She is very well aware of what makes her excited, of what makes her smile, and of what keeps her grounded, and what Sherlock provides happens to do all three. It's as much as any mother can hope their child finds, even if said child hasn't realized what they've unearthed.

It's a pretty nice lunch, actually. Domestic in a loving way. The detective never knew he wanted that.

"That went well," Joan says once they arrive back, removing her coat and smiling. She doesn't mention the fact that he was entirely uninvited, nor does she seem to care.

"Yes, it did," he tells her in response, and the next time she goes so does he.

It becomes routine, just like his dreams, in which her hand always lingers a little too long, her step wavers a little too often, and her breath catches a little too frequently.

* * *

They're at a charity ball, and his cuffs are chaffing and his tie is slightly too tight and one of his socks is slipping down his shoe. Sherlock Holmes, in an immaculate full body suit with footwear that is actually formal and hair that is actually combed, was miserable since they got there, despite his polished appearance. Him and Joan had gone to the event solely because it was also honoring the precinct and several people whose lives had been personally saved due to their department had come as a show of thanks. Had it not been for the obvious disapproval of his superiors, he would have cut and run hours ago.

He crossed his legs with a sigh at one of the tables in the back, where he had been remaining in solitude ever since Joan got pulled away by a coworker nearly forty minutes prior. His sock stubbornly fell another centimeter and he resisted the urge to fling his pointed contraptions across the room, tearing the sock neatly in two afterwards. Surely Gregson would understand.

He's about to do just that, actually, when his partner taps him on the shoulder, smiling brightly. It appears that through the merciful powers of divine intervention she'd been released from her lapse through the ballroom. Sock-based revenge can wait.

"Have you been here the whole time?" she asks, smirking slightly and acting utterly unsurprised.

"I'm not completely inept at social gatherings, Watson. People do vie for my attention now and again, I'll have you know," he responds instantly as he stands, knowing full well that she sees straight through the lie. With him, it's less about the belief and more about the facade of saving face - around her, it hardly matters.

"Well I think I've had about enough of this for the night. Let's get up and dance one last time and we'll head back home, alright?" she says, grabbing his hand and tugging him forwards slightly. "Frankly I've only waltzed with a couple of guys from the department and half of them stepped on my feet. And if I was swayed in circles by the man I talked to twice this year who works at the desk on the corner, a man I don't even know the name of, I am at least going to dance with my partner before I go."

"Watson, my sock is escaping my foot, my tie is strangling me, my jacket is far too hot, and I haven't _waltzed_ all night." Joan's eyes go wide.

"You didn't dance at all? At a _charity ball_ , Sherlock?" He shrugs helplessly.

"Isn't that the point of scowling in the back at an abandoned table? To avoid all the other people?"

"You're unbelievable," his companion sighs, and with another deft pull she sets his hands on her waist and slips her arms around his shoulders. "Here. I'm not 'other people' and now it doesn't look like you're about to strangle a family in the corner." For once, the great Sherlock Holmes has no clue what to do. His brain has short-circuited.

The problem is not, in fact, that he doesn't know how to dance. That is the least of his worries; being from the overly posh and influential family that the Holmes were, his parents made sure that all traditional dances and social cues amongst the elite were ingrained into Sherlock before the age of seven. The classical waltz was one of many subjects covered in basic education. Like those very unhelpful courses on polite mannerisms, he took great pleasure in not utilizing said skill sets, but they were always there nonetheless. No, what was far more troubling was the way Joan was currently draped around him, looking up at him with eyes both expectant and filled with _more_ (and they'd been filled with a little _more_ rather frequently, as of late, and it kept him up far too much), in an elegant floor-length gown with ringlets in her hair, exceptionally dark lashes, and crimson lipstick. He didn't know what to _do_ in cases like this. He hadn't had much romantic experience with a woman he actually enjoyed the company of, let alone loved.

(He would say 'liked'. Let alone 'liked'. But that wasn't quite true, was it? He had loved Joan from the very start for her quick mind, her drive, her genuine interest and willingness to understand. True, he had loved her as a friend at the time, but you don't simply develop feelings for someone you know better than yourself, someone you would go insane without, someone you would _die_ for and label it something as juvenile as a crush. There's a lot of difference between being smitten with a girl and having a drive to protect them from all the evils of the world, to never let them go, and that difference is called the fallout zone.

You survive the transition or you don't. Simple as that.

And from the way Joan had transcended the phase of 'smitten' altogether, leaping entirely towards the one extreme, it was evident that whatever he was feeling had prevailed. That right there was love, and though he had only noticed it very recently, that love had always existed, albeit in different forms. In short, he was doomed for a long, long while and nothing could stop it now, no matter the idiocy of that plan.)

As the next waltz started up, though (and waltzes, despite varying in type and speed, had composed nearly the entire soundtrack of the event, so this was hardly a surprise), he found himself tightening his grip on the green fabric around her waist and guiding her into the motions, his body acting of its own accord as his mind melted through to the floor. She hummed absentmindedly, starting to smile again out of something other than her fond exasperation, and came a little closer.

"You never told me you could dance," she laughs, having what was obviously the best time she'd had all night. "If I'd known, I would have dragged you over here hours ago." He nods, grinning back unwittingly, and tries to think of something witty that his usual intelligent self would say.

"Yes," is what he comes up with, and that is quite the heavy commentary on the state of his cognitive faculties at the present. Suddenly he's wondering just how exactly they'd gotten to a point where Joan was so near - inches of distance lay between them, but they seemed so easy to span for some absurd reason. He has an urge, one he never imagined he'd come to possess, that tells his brain that perhaps Sherlock doesn't want to leave yet. Maybe they could stretch this moment just a few minutes longer.

Soon enough the next song is starting, and his fellow detective looks slightly put out about the fact that the previous number came to an end. As she unfolds her hands from their interlaced position behind he neck, he catches her.

"You did say it was a shame that we didn't dance earlier, Joan," he says, the words escaping his mouth before he can properly reflect. "I don't see the harm in staying for a little bit more." And then she's grinning again, slowly but surely letting the expression creep up onto her lips, and she slots her fingers back into place.

"Alright, then. I'll just worry about being dead on my feet later, then," she decides out loud, and soon enough the detective is silently basking in the fact that she's there at all.

One song rolls into two, which rolls into three, and it's almost an hour later when they finally decide to head out. Joan Watson has tucked her head onto his chest, tired but content, and he's trying not to let everyone else see just how soft his eyes have gone or how careful he's been in trying to keep her upright.

He has no idea if it's working or not, and by the strange and almost questioning glances they've been shot recently he's probably been failing. Surprisingly, that fails to bother him. Not at all.

Eventually he loads up a very sleep deprived Joan into her vehicle and drives them home, bidding goodbye to their coworkers on the way out. When they reach the Brownstone, she lazily heads into her room and emerges minutes later sans dress and makeup, clad in her usual shorts and mildly oversized t shirt. Naturally, Sherlock doesn't mind a bit. She's never had to try around him, anyhow.

Joan hugs him in her unfortunate state of exhaustion, squeezing him gently.

"Tonight was good," she mumbles into the back of his suit jacket. "You made it good. You should know." He carefully removes her arms and leads her back to her room and waiting bed. She lays inside the covers, burrowing her face in without hesitation.

He was going to leave, honestly. He had just loosened his tie, just removed his shoes and kicked them into the hall. And then came her voice again.

"I wish I had someone," she mutters next, yawning and staring at the ceiling. The champagne and deprivation were clearly taking their toll. "Someone to fall into, you know? Tonight made me remember that." Her brow furrowed in thought. "You would work, I think. But you wouldn't want me." It's rather sad, actually, that she couldn't be farther from the truth.

"Who says?" he responds quietly, and in that moment he does something truly stupid. He takes off his idiotic jacket and lays down next to her, close enough to touch. She sets her head on his shoulder and falls asleep talking about every thought in her brain, some comments less than intelligible. Her digits lace with his, her sheets get tangled in his legs, and eventually he drifts along with her, wondering in his dreams how on earth he was allowed to do this.

* * *

When they wake up the next day, it's so strangely reminiscent of his night vision months ago (he still remembers, quite vividly, the swirls he pressed into her arms, all the deep blues and rich violets and bright scarlets blurring together) he almost thinks he's still asleep. And then, of course, he remembers.

Suddenly he feels a very pressing need to apologize.

"Joan, I -"

"If I ask you something, will you promise not to hold it over me?" she asks quietly, glancing down at their intertwined hands, laid over his chest.

He nods, obviously, because he doesn't think he's even capable of holding Watson to anything. She's too good for that and he's not, in fact, the petulant child he behaves like on occasion.

"Could we stay like this? Just a little longer?" He blinks, because even after years and years of partnership his comrade can still find ways to surprise him. She, oblivious to that thought, continues, biting her lip slightly. "It's just . . . it's nice. It's been a while since I've had _nice_ , you know?" She truly has no idea what he'd give to have _nice_ forever.

"Of course, Joan," he tells her with far too much feeling, the detective wrapping an arm around her. His partner hums, settling back into the feeling, and without meaning to she drifts unconscious again, looking much too comfortable, much too _right_. It's almost too much for him to handle.

This was a terrible idea. Developing feelings for his best friend in the first place was a _terrible_ idea.

The genius tries not to think about this moment in the evenings that follow, but it replays on loop for nights and nights and nights. It was bad enough, realizing that he was falling in love with her. Now every single time he thinks he's hit rock bottom, he'll remember _that_ , and it will remind him that, impossibly, he's still got more space to tumble through.

* * *

Sometimes, when she can't sleep, she'll wordlessly get up and lay next to him until she does. He has assured her that it was alright; wasn't that what best friends did? Take care of eachother?

But he wants to be something more than best friends. Something better.

And maybe, apart from the fact that he has trouble sleeping as well, one of the reasons she seeks him out is because she wants that, too.

Sherlock hopes, and perhaps he would pray if he were more religious, that that is the case, because things have gotten decidedly worse since she began sleeping at his side. He has to emerge from his visions with one Joan Watson beside him, warm and concrete and _real_ , and it only fuels his imagination. It gives him a little bit too much faith.

His partner never complains, though. She stretches and yawns and leans far too heavily onto his collarbone, but she never once suggests that what they are doing should come to a close. She rather enjoys being held, actually; it reminds her that she's not alone, that she's valued. Though she's certainly not insecure, Joan could stand to hear that more often.

So he continues waking up to her at his side, limbs tangled in limbs, and even Sherlock Holmes cannot quite convince himself that it's nothing.

* * *

"Do you ever think about it?" Joan questions as she looks at the victims of New York's latest tragedy reuniting again. Apparently a human trafficking operation had just been put to rest and the families had come out to see their missing persons. There were tearful laughs, lengthy hugs, and warm embraces across the way, and as the police took their final remarks the two consulting detectives remained on the sidelines, watching the affair.

"Having a family?" he counters, brow furrowed. It's the only thing that makes sense, really. "All the time. But I'm not cut out for it." She cocked her head in surprise.

"How so?"

"Watson, I snap constantly. I'm impatient and ornery at the best of times and am easily irritated. My hobbies are strange, I'm brutally honest, and my last relationship ended in flames. A child would come to hate me if I were their father, and that's supposing my wife would stick around. All I know about blood relations is what I've managed to gather from my insipid brother and challenging parents, and I hardly have a good relationship with either of them." The genius huffs, setting back his shoulders. "I'm a micro-chasm of case studies, Joan. I would be terrible at it."

"Being a member of a family?" she replies, shaking her head. "I beg to differ."

He raises a brow. "Really?"

"Sherlock, you save lives every day. You're unwaveringly devoted to your job and to those closest to you. You saved my life so many times I know I wouldn't be alive today if it wasn't for you. And yes, you're not _normal_ , but nobody asked you to be. I happen to like your fascination with mysteries and I don't mind that you enjoy lock-picking, codebreaking, and all the other eccentric habits you've picked up. And believe it or not, you will be a good husband. You can cook, you tolerate grocery shopping, you visit my mom and come volunteer with me, and as I've learned recently, you can dance. Very, very well." She almost appears sad, or maybe bittersweet. "Any girl would be lucky to have you, and I have no doubt you'll be able to love and support her just fine." The genius looks at her, _really looks_ at her, and thinks for the thousandth time that she's incredible. She always knows just what to say, even when she's seconds from caving. So he will do his best to reply in kind.

"I'm still not going to go looking for someone, Joan," he says, keeping his eyes on his partner the entire time, gauging her reaction.

"Why not? You deserve it, even if you don't think you do." At that moment, he takes her hand, something he rarely does with anyone.

"You're already my family." She's so genuinely touched she's seconds away from crying, he can tell. So instead of tearing up, she presses her face into his shirt and hugs him tightly, far, far longer than necessary. This sort of show of affection, so similar to the ones the reunited are participating in, doesn't annoy him at all when it's Joan, and so he allows it.

"You're mine, too," she whispers, almost reflexively, and as they head home she smiles softly.

That night, he dreams of her, talking in furious tones about their newest case, pacing around the kitchen with a huff. He's listening, though is frankly more focused on not burning dinner, and when he plates everything minutes later (it's stir fry, something he rarely makes; perhaps he could whip something up for real next week) he's mildly shocked to notice that there are, in fact, three dishes. Joan, sighing after her tirade, places everything on the table and settles into her chair across from him.

Had there always been another chair?

"Dinner!" she calls upstairs, and before he could fully register what was happening, a muffled voice screamed something back, probably to the effect of 'I know _now_ '. There are mild thumps on the wooden stairs, quick and erratic, and before he gets to see person number three he wakes up in a haze, Joan tucked neatly into her half of the bed (and really, there shouldn't be a matter of sides, but there are, which should probably be cause for alarm but isn't, and he wishes to keep it that way for as long as she'll let him). That was peculiar, even by his standards, and he scrubs a hand over his face, careful not to wake his companion, and wracks his brain trying to figure out what had just happened.

(He's a real idiot, for a genius.

Some things you should just know, but he _did_ say he wasn't a family man. Sherlock Holmes is many things, just introspective is rarely one of them.

And anyhow, a father is something he's never been at all. How was he supposed to know what parenthood looks like?)

He pieces together exactly who that person was supposed to be and cannot stop thinking about them for the rest of the day and for the evenings following. Sherlock wonders if he'll ever get lucky enough to meet them in reality.

* * *

One night, he asks her to stargaze with him.

Admittedly, it was probably more than a little romantic in connotation. They were together on the roof, chairs side by side, gazing up at ebony space in the underbelly of night. Supposedly a small meteor shower was supposed to occur, right over their small patch of sky, and Sherlock had thought that perhaps some company would be nice. Joan might enjoy it, too. But seeing her, hair loose, cocoa in hand, wrapped up in a blanket and illuminated in nothing but lantern light, he realizes that he may have made a mistake. His comrade isn't doing anything out of the ordinary, really; she's just sitting there, watching the inky night, and he can't stop _staring_. Strangely enough, he hadn't realized that spending time with Joan meant spending time with Joan whilst doing something that might me misconstrued as a date.

For a man with an IQ as high as his, he's really not very bright. He should have known that enjoying a meteor shower would be impossible when he was so focused on other things, such as constant internal panic.

When it began, he was quiet as the grave, alternating between looking at her and looking at the natural satellites condescending across the skyline. It was amazing, something he was truly fascinated by, but he just couldn't _stop_.

"It's beautiful," she tells him, awestruck. He cannot be held accountable for what he does next.

"It is," he responds, not sparing the phenomena even the slightest glance. She turned in agreement and then saw that he was looking at her, dead on.

"Are you . . ." the woman starts, then trails off, not knowing quite what to say. "Why aren't you watching?"

"I'm watching you. It's rather infuriating, actually." Her brow furrowed.

"What, am I doing something?"

"You're being yourself, Joan. It's enough to make anybody stop and stare," he mutters grimly, and like a prepubescent boy his ears tart to tinge red. He thought he'd suppressed those sorts of urges by now, sadly enough.

"Oh," his partner remarks, glancing down at her pajamas, swathed in gentle yellow light. She's still trying to process what that could possibly mean. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Can you answer some questions for me? Honestly?" Joan tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, turning her entire body to face him, and he knows that this has to be it. He's gotten away with quite a lot, but Holmes aren't meant to be so lucky. They don't get happiness, they don't find love. And maybe he thought, just for a second, that he wasn't so alone in that place, that maybe she was going to be different, but here and now is where it all comes crumbling down.

Like a man braced for execution, he nods with a grimace.

 _Here is the guillotine_.

"So, recently, I know things have changed. I know I've been acting differently, and I know that we've been more . . ." She clears her throat. "Anyways. I don't want to bother you with it, but did you mean it? When you say things like that?"

"Like what?" he replies miserably, wanting to shrink into himself.

"That I'm beautiful, for one."

That was . . . not what he thought she'd say.

Not at all.

"Of course. You are, Watson. It's a fact," the detective retorts, raising a brow. "I never give compliments I don't mean."

"And when we were dancing. Why did you humor me?"

"You wanted to dance. So we did. It made you happy." She sighs, taking a sudden interest in her toes, her legs drawn up to her chest.

"And now we sleep together."

"You needed me," he shruggs, and his eyes traced the meteors arching above her head, almost like a crown of stardust. Magical. "You're my partner, Joan. I'll always be there when you need me." At this point, his fellow consulting detective seemed ready to pull out her hair.

"This is the one area of life where I can't read you and it's infuriating," she groans, possibly gearing up to murder him on the roof. He rather hoped she wouldn't; the blood would never wash out. "I guess I'm asking what all that _means_ to you."

"What it means?"

"Yes, and if it means the same thing to you that it does to me," the woman huffs, crossing her arms. "Because I thought it was more than clear what I thought about you but I have no clue what you make of us, and it's driving me crazy. You say things like _that_ and then I'm confused all over again."

She can't mean that the way he thinks she means that.

There's no way he's that delusional.

It's not supposed to be that easy.

"What do you think about me, Joan?" he questions eventually, and he truly despises how hopeful that sentence was. His partner borders on the incredulous.

"You're making me say it?" She pinches the bridge of her nose with an expression that spells out her future regrets. "These past few months, I can't stand to be alone. No, not alone as in 'I'm in a sea of people and I feel on my own', but as in whenever you're not there it feels wrong. Almost like a part of me isn't there, either. And yes, that's strange, but I chalked it up to overexposure and closeness and called it good. But I physically can't run cases without running through my thoughts with you, without forcing you to pick my brain, and when I can't reach you it drives me up a wall. When I don't see you each day I'm off-center, and it's weird to not eat meals with you or even go _shopping_ without you, which is stupid. It shouldn't be a problem but it _is_ and I don't want to do things like errands without your company. I never sleep better than when I'm lying next to you and you know me better than anybody else. You _understand_ me without words and I can't imagine losing that. If I lost you period I think I'd be a shell." She paused. "It's not because I miss Andrew or because I need affection. Suddenly I just realized that I wanted my partner to be more than my partner, and that since we'd gotten closer maybe . . . I don't know. Maybe something more wasn't so far, you know?"

He tries to comprehend the significance of what she just said, but it seems so overwhelmingly good that he doesn't know where to start.

She has no idea, does she?

And apparently he had no clue, either.

"You're not wrong," the man informs, more serious than he's been in his entire life. Her eyes narrow.

"What do you -"

She never gets to finish that thought as he rather effectively cuts off her next incoming rant. He's kissing her and trying his very damnedest not to smile because he's been waiting for one Joan Watson far, far too long to botch this up now. She's surprised, as is to be expected, but she warms within instants, molding her mouth to fit his. Hands curve around necks, fingers settle on hips, and his mind is far, far away, up above the clouds, flitting across the skyline like the meteors around them. He tugged her closer and closer still, wanting _more_ , wanting everything, until the space between them was nonexistent and his insides were dripping with molten gold.

This was coming home. This was being fully and truly _alive_ , fully and truly devoted to another person. How on earth had he ever survived without Watson?

Eventually the pull apart, her head resting on his shoulder as they both regain their breath, and watch the dying light of the meteors, like an explosion of stars on the widening horizon. There's a lot they should probably be discussing, a lot of concerns they should probably be voicing, but Sherlock cannot for the life of him remember them now.

"So what would you say if I asked you out on a date tomorrow night?" he finally ends up mumbling into her hair. He can _feel_ the hum rising through her throat, warming to the idea.

"I've got nothing planned."

"Good."

When he falls asleep, meteors line the sky, illuminating her face, and as he kisses her again, he's comforted by one vital fact: all of it is real.

* * *

The evening afterwards is nothing too eventful. They go do a moderately nice restaurant, converse pleasantly the entire time, and eventually go on a long walk through different parts of the city. He mentions that a building on the corner is probably part of a smuggling operation based on the abundance of white vans and coffee grounds strewn about the floor, and she agrees and tells him they'll bring it up with Gregson in the morning. He makes an inordinately fancy dessert in the Brownstone for no reason other than he felt like it, and she sips from a recently-discovered bottle of brandy and talks about every thought on her mind. Typically people don't kiss excessively on the first date, but they didn't quite mind. He embraces her anyways, lips on lips, and all else falls away whenever it happens.

It's comfortable. It's effortless. It's something that probably should have happened a long time ago.

Eventually, they do make their way to bed and out of newly acquired habit they fall in together, two halves of a whole. she passes out first, a smile on her face, and he traces swirls across her arm, recreating galaxies.

His dreams have never been better.

* * *

A strange missive comes in the mail a week later. Signed from a familiar script, it reads:

 _Took you long enough. I'm happy, though!_

Even Kitty knew before them.

And he calls himself a detective.

* * *

Her mother finds out just by looking at both of them. Watson's parent smiles mischievously and begins to chuckle.

"Finally figured some things out, right?" she grins, patting both their hands. "Good for you. I'm proud, Joan."

"Thanks," the female detective replies, "I'm pretty happy, too." They resume their lunches without another word on the matter. There's really nothing more to say.

* * *

Joan Watson tells him she loves him after six weeks and two days of being in a relationship. He tells her the same when she wakes up the next day.

He would say it's all he ever dreamed of, but he's not too fond of the sentiment and the inflection is present nonetheless.

Sherlock Holmes is going to spend the rest of his life following his partner around. Honestly, he can't wait.

* * *

 **So this was the last chapter. I will probably post an epilogue, it will just be after I finish up some other stuff, so don't hold your breath.**

 **I meant to get Transitions out so long ago it's not even funny. However, I got busy and kept pushing it aside.**

 **I need to work on that. I should be more productive.**

 **Anyways, here's the start of something happy for them; it was interesting to write from a conventional point and maybe the ending was slightly rushed, but this was already so long and if I was going to add another followup part to the end of this then it didn't really matter. The end is hardly ever the true end, after all.**

 **Have a great day and I hope you enjoyed this. Good luck!**


	5. Happily Ever After

**Right, so, after all this time I finally gathered the motivation to complete this epilogue. I have actual conscious thought and basic analysis of what words I've spewed onto the page at the bottom I'm sure. For now, I just needed to get it out, and get it out I have.**

 **Quick note: please check out a friend of mine, CrystalHeartZyx if you love Mortal Instruments and/or Final Fantasy and/or PJO. She writes so much it's insane and I would never invent the plot-lines she whips out. As someone who offers to edit her stuff, trust me, a lot of love and effort goes into that. And she also just got an AO3 account recently and needs some attention, so. Love her please, be it through a DM or a comment or even just a view - she's an awesome creator and it would make her day. If anyone I know deserves it, she does.**

 **Anyways, thanks to anyone who's stuck around this long and is here to read the conclusion. My writing style may become more lax as this goes along; Sherlock has mellowed out as a person now and is less of a paranoid narrator. He's grown into a healthy relationship and spends less time pondering inevitable doom, which is good. It's a lot of fluff, is all, and maybe analysis suffered a bit but. It's what I got. I really hope you enjoy; it's been a long time coming.**

* * *

Four years is the longest he's ever been with someone romantically. They give you time to truly bond with another person, to truly grasp their individual foibles and quirks and innermost thoughts. A few months is a get-to-know-you phase, sixteen months or so is the get-to-understand-you phase, and anything after is nothing short of commitment. Most do not survive the first twelve weeks, let alone the veritable green mile.

But Sherlock Holmes has made it to four years with minor incident. She's still around, and she's everywhere, and she's not running away.

Watson is the figure tangled in his sheets when he wakes up every morning, familiar and essential. She is the person he cooks breakfast for and goes running with and accompanies on explorations of the city. She is his partner when work comes calling, as it always does, and a grounding presence whenever his brilliant mind flies too far off course. She is the hand he squeezes when hearing bad news or visiting family members and she is the shoulder he leans on when life grows weary. She is the woman he goes to bed with every night and the one he's quite confident he'll want to continue embracing for the rest of his days. Joan is the one person he cannot live without, and he loves her. He still loves her after four years of everything.

How does one explain that sort of impossible thought, though?

"If you wait any longer, she might propose herself," Gregson warns. "She's been preparing for it for the last year and a half, Sherlock. She can't sit and wonder for the rest of her life." Indeed she can't. But Sherlock doesn't know what to say.

You don't tell your lungs that you are grateful of the fact that they keep you alive. There are as unnoticed and vital as life itself; it's their role in your existence. They simply make it possible for you to continue breathing without thinking, and you love them for it. And how would you verbalize that sentiment, tell them that they are needed in a way that makes utter sense? Most don't ponder the impossibility of their importance, or wonder what they'd do without lungs. Lungs are necessary and eternal; you never think to say so because they'll always be there, keeping you alive.

Women, however, are different. As unnoticed and vital as lungs, maybe, but not as easy to justify away. They wonder why their essential-ness is not acknowledged. They need to be told of their importance in a way that they'll comprehend, and Sherlock has always been rubbish at feelings. He's never had to tell people he wants them to stay forever because they've never _been_ in a position to stay forever. He's never needed to ask. And Joan is one person he cannot loose without loosing everything else.

The underlying message of that sentiment is 'so you better not mess it up'. He's very well aware of the fact that he has a good thing going for him, the sort of camaraderie and trust couples only dream of (and in a fashion, he has, too). How does one ask their partner to, as his coworkers so indelicately put it, 'shack up'?

"Take her someplace nice," Bell suggests, shrugging. "You know Joan better than anyone. Find something that means a lot to both of you and work up from there. If I were in your shoes, that's what I'd do." That is a-star advice, truly. A very good idea. He should work around a place or a memory and construct a proposal from there.

However, he's Sherlock Holmes, and he's not all that bright. He just goes up to the roof one night and sits with her in fold-out chairs, watching a movie projected onto an old sheet. It's a rather common ritual in the Brownstone and it has been for years, so it should be nothing special. But then she's laughing at the makeshift screen, lips quirked up and eyes bright, and it unwittingly begins to slip out: "Let's get married, Joan."

She freezes like an old film reel, tape caught in the gears. "What did you just say?"

"I think," he starts slowly, still trying to catch up with his words, "I just asked you to marry me." She sits there silently, almost in shock, and he feels compelled to fill the quiet. "You don't have to, I suppose. It's a thought. One I've had for the past few years, yes, but that doesn't matter so much." The genius squirms in his seat, rearranging his limbs. They seem to have acquired a new, nearly awkward semblance of weight. "It does matter, actually. Because I love you, and I don't know what I'd ever do without you. I guess I didn't know how to phrase it, how to get it out, because nothing sounded good enough. It's _you_ , so it had to be good enough, because you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I just . . ." He trails off, feeling rather caught off-guard. "Please."

Ever so softly, she begins to smile, first at the very seams of her mouth and then working outwards.

"Took you long enough," she tells him in response, leaning over and kissing him abruptly. He can't think about all the ways he messed up whatever impromptu speech he has just delivered when his partner is there, beaming brightly, and it soothes away all the doubt.

He did not cock up too badly. Joan is not going to leave.

"'That is a yes, right?" he questions irregardless, a grin overtaking his face. "Didn't quite catch that."

"Not at all," she replies, and they tumble downstairs without finishing the flick, the black-and-white speckles still playing out over an unviewed canvas.

Idly, he dreams of the miracle in which she agreed, turning it over and over again as if searching for flaws. When he wakes up to her tucked against his side, inky hair haphazardly splayed everywhere, he thinks that he's never been happier.

How wonderfully strange.

* * *

Somedays, he smooths his fingers across her hands, committing them to memory. Her skin is always filled with warmth, like there's a small sun tucked inside her veins and pooling with heat, and it's always impossibly soft, worn down like pressed leather where they should be all hard points and firm callous. They are strong, but they are gentle and blemish-less, digits long and elegantly slender, slightly tanned and sometimes marred with faint impressions of ink or lead. Sherlock is fascinated with them, as he is by everything about her.

When he'd picked up the ring so very long ago, stashing it in the deepest recesses of the basement where she'd never think to go, he'd thought endlessly about her hands. Joan, in actuality, was extremely practical. She was not above dirt, nor above blood or gore, and she could aim and fire a gun just as well as he. She wasn't a particularly vain person - how could she be, after living with him - and thus he didn't even give the enormous diamonds at the forefront of the jeweler's the time of day.

His partner was a romantic, though; for all her intelligence, fervor, and indomitable drive, Joan still had hopes that the world hadn't beaten out of her. She longed for absolute trust, for dizzying odds, for the triumph of good despite all she bore witness to each day, and perhaps this was why she was such a good match for Sherlock. She didn't hesitate to fight for what she wanted, and she had mercilessly stripped his walls and inserted herself so thoroughly into his life that he couldn't pry her out. Admittedly, after a while, he hadn't wanted to. For someone like that, you don't just get a plain band and flee the store, nor do you pick the oh-so-thoughtful engraved rings with messages such as 'you're my moon and my stars'. Joan had believed in him, and so he decided he would be better. 'Better' was worth more than just a slogan on a bumper sticker. Sherlock, upon shopping, naturally dismissed those options out of hand.

He'd been to five different sellers when he came across a pawn shop, late in the afternoon. With a disgruntled sigh, he'd lumbered in, moving numbly towards the jewelry section. It was in the very back where he saw two bands of looping silver. The smaller of the pair was clearly vintage, etched with tiny swirls (or was it vines?) that twisted and knotted towards the center. A small stone, gleaming proudly from the coated metal, lightly poked free of the middle, vaguely resembling a flower emerging from thorns. The larger, obviously meant for a man, sat just away from it, a round and shining thing. This one was thicker, and must rest heavier around the finger, but it was scrolled across in tiny foreign symbols. Some were recognizable, such as ankhs and winding crosses, and others were mysteries at best. Celtic in origin? Perhaps Grecco? Similar spirals lined the bottom of the ring, looping around the perimeter, but perhaps that was more of a reflection of a style than an indication of a matching set. The rings weren't meant to be sold together, as could be told from a glance, but that didn't mean they weren't just what he was looking for. He hadn't intended to get a band for himself, too, but sometimes things just fall together, rather like him and Joan. One polished and fluid, another warped and mysterious but still rather good, once the edges were cleaned up.

It worked.

The genius had gone home with a new appreciation for jewelers - heaven knew he didn't have the time, patience, or inclination to work with such bumbling, distressed people on a daily basis - and two snatchings of silver, secured in a velvet bag instead of a box. He'd assume he'd ask her - he was _going_ to ask her, eventually - and it would be a premeditated measure of a few weeks, not months upon months. The ring meant for Joan had sat by its comrade for a millennia in the corners beneath the Brownstone, nearly forgotten. It was a shame, really, that such a beautiful thing remain hidden.

But now that she had said yes, there was no need for secrecy anymore, was there?

"Joan," he whispers in her ear, words warm but full of intent. She stirs slowly, and then all at once, being so exhausted from their work the night before that she'd barely noticed when he got up to fetch them.

"Hmmm?" she eventually questions, the inquisition blurring into more of a halfhearted yawn. He takes those hands, the ones he's tried to imprint on his brain over and over again, and he removes the band from the pouch, where it tumbles out with an earnest clink. Suddenly, her eyes are much wider and filled with lucidity. "Is that -"

"If you like it, yes," the consulting detective murmurs, still subconsciously twisting her slender fingers with his. "I'm hoping you do. Admittedly, I should have surrendered these days ago. I was a little . . . distracted." The woman smiles knowingly at that, having been the one to do all that _distracting_ with much personal smugness.

"In that case, maybe I should apologize," she laughs slightly, but the tears in her eyes are very real and very telling.

"Never," he tells her fiercely, and he thumbs away a loose teardrop on her cheek. "It must be pretty awful, then, if you cried just from looking at it."

She smiles so brightly, even with clouded lids, that he _knows_ she thinks he's the most idiotic man alive. The prospect makes him grin like an imbecile. "I love it," she says instead, though, glancing both him and the ring up and down. He's still in pajama pants and a t shirt, an unfortunate toothpaste stain from the night before running down the hem. No socks, no shoes, no anything remotely professional. The genius realizes, fully and entirely, that he does not look the part of a hero. But he's Sherlock Holmes, completely unguarded, and that's something only Joan has been able to ever witness, so. He's going to wear that knowledge like a badge and he's going to let her stare, let her see all she wants, because if there's one thing in life he's absolutely sure about, it's his partner.

"You want to try it on?" he prods gently, and as she wordlessly nods, still drinking it in, he slips it onto her ring finger. He'd thought it might need resizing, that it might be a tad too big, but it fits about as perfect as a band can, sliding comfortably down to the base of her digit. He picks up it's not-match and lets her see it, lets her know what it is and what it means, before tugging it onto his own hand.

"I love them," she repeats, dark hair falling over her shoulders, and she sniffs back a happy sob. "I'm crying, I don't know why, but I _love_ them. They're perfect."

( _Perfect._

Hasn't he used the same word to describe _her_ , so many times over?)

In response to that, Sherlock shrugs lightly, opting to voice what he's thinking as opposed to providing an actual reply. "I love you."

Her hands grip his sides tightly, face buried in his neck. "I love you, too."

It takes them a long, _long_ time to leave bed. It's only the promise of food that tempts her to leave, and even then it's resigned at best. They'd just finished up a challenging case and thus the station would survive without them, making the allure of few responsibilities and the attraction to laziness even stronger. Eventually they move down the stairs, still in bedtime attire, and brew hot coffee while Sherlock prepares french toast. The rest of the day drains away in a fit of gold that the genius cannot recall if he wants to, despite his joyous efforts in the dreams that follow.

* * *

Joan wears the ring without thought or hesitation. It's an automatic and oddly instinctive action that seems to occur out of nowhere, and yet Sherlock could almost swear she'd been wearing it all her life given the way it sits so well upon her finger. It was not dainty, not conventional, not shiny or commanding, but beautiful and complimentary all the same, much like its host. She took to it instantly.

"It has character," her mother appraised approvingly when she saw the trinket, and a grin wove it's way across her features. "I'm happy it's worked out."

"Not too shabby," Gregson tells him with eyebrows raised, most likely surprised Sherlock had even a modicum common sense when it came to women's jewelry. "Congratulations on behalf the station."

"Took you long enough," Alfredo laughs, scratching the back of his neck. "I thought you'd be married by year three at the very latest. Good on you, man."

All parties were thanked and invited to the wedding ceremony, which the genius had honestly forgotten they'd have to plan and schedule.

Surely he wouldn't have to invite his _father,_ would he? At least Mycroft wouldn't be in attendance.

"We'll worry about all that in a few days," Joan tells him, reading his mind like usual. "For now, I'm just happy, alright?" She looks up at him and, like always, something cinches in his chest. It's like a mini-heart attack without the actual physical handicap, but it's just as lethal.

"Good," he responds far too softly, and that's that. At night he envisions a world crusted with white and silver, rows of pews, and her on the other side of the room, slowly inching closer.

* * *

Women have a secret language. He's tried to decode it numerous times to little avail.

When a woman says 'give me a second', they mean 'give me five minutes'.

When she asks 'give me five minutes', she's requesting ten.

When a lady requests 'give me ten minutes', she really is warning you that she'll be preoccupied for the next foreseeable hour.

It's all terribly confusing and most inconvenient. He hasn't the foggiest why the female persuasion is so inclined to this blatant misdirection.

There are some basic essentials he's picked up along the way: roughly translated, 'I'm just a little tired' means 'I am sleep deprived so badly I might just have to tear your skin off your skull', 'what are you doing' means 'stop or I'll kill you', 'I'm fine' means 'I'm on the brink of death and require revival', and 'it's just a stomach ache' is 'I have my period but don't want to tell you, I can't actually feel anything but pure agony'. All of these are phrases Joan has used from time to time, albeit to a lesser extent than other women he's encountered. But luckily for Sherlock, Joan speaks in perfect english when it comes to the things that truly matter.

'Be careful' means 'come home safe', 'you look exhausted' means 'relax and get better', and 'you're impossible' means 'you're so lucky I'm around'.

"I'm going out this morning," he tells her as he slips on a coat.

She hums from the kitchen. "Alright, but if you stop at the grocery store you should pick up milk, we're almost out."

"I will," the genius promises, and she walks to the front door, grabs his lapels and kisses him soundly. Like usual, he's so taken in by the warmth and the blurring haze that he nearly forgets what he was planning to do.

"Have a nice stroll," his partner smiles, almost proudly taking in the fuzzy lines of his face as she heads back. "And don't die!"

"I won't," he tells her fiercely, and he sets out on the town intending to do just that. He has to stay alive, after all - he's got _her_ to come home to.

(Kisses definitely translate to 'I love you'. It's not so much an unspoken truth as it is a part of their own private dialogue, a language they've unconsciously created that is wholly and uniquely theirs.)

* * *

When she's taken, it rocks his world to its very foundations. The poem 'The Second Coming' perfectly summarizes Sherlock's current mental state:

 _Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;_

 _Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,_

 _The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere_

 _The ceremony of innocence is drowned;_

 _The best lack all conviction, while the worst_

 _Are full of passionate intensity._

A more fitting depiction of his headspace surely couldn't be constructed. Without Joan there is usually a hideous longing, and while he's a fully functional person when she's away a noticeable and unnerving quiet overtakes the house and he finds himself lost in his own thoughts far too often, wandering down all the wrong roads. She is not responsible for his health or sobriety, but she is a stark reminder of his better nature, of the reasons he does what he does, of what it means to be part of a family instead of an island. He _wants_ her around with a ferocity because he loves her, not because he's half a human without her. Being completed by someone doesn't mean you are broken on your own.

However, when someone _takes_ Joan from him things are different. That is when his usual unrest and longing turns from anxious to furious, a hellfire of depravity. Sherlock Holmes would rip mountains in two with his bare hands and liquefy the heavens with a glare if it meant getting Joan back, safe and sound. He is ready for the kill.

Now, as a matter of fact, was a prime example of that incredible will.

"What do you mean, _no one's seen her_?" he practically spits out, the words grinding against his teeth with disdain. "How does Joan just get _stolen_ like a wallet? She's my bloody _partner_ you _insidious imbeciles!_ " The investigative team on the scene merely shuffle and glance at their feet, not even attempting to defend themselves against an enraged Sherlock Holmes - he is an animal beyond his coveted reason and logic. "Bell?" the detective calls out, as Bell and Gregson are just possibly the only other people on the scene he knows are working their absolute hardest to recover Watson.

"From the looks of it she was dragged into the alley and overcome, presumably by five men and not without a fight, as can be seen by the traces of blood splattered on the walls," he says, eyes grave. "Beyond what a DNA scan will tell us about any potential matches in our database, we don't have much to go on so far. When she was walking home she was alone and it was late, so no witnesses have come forwards. The cameras from across the street didn't catch much in the dark and they exited out the other end of the alley, the tapes for which were already wiped. Based on the lack of evidence or a body, it seems to be revenge-based and I'd expect a ransom. If you were anyone else I'd tell you to compile a list of motivated enemies but, seeing as it's you, that's a damn near impossible request." The officer kneads his forehead, exhaling harshly. "I can't imagine what you must be feeling right now."

"Someone is going to die tonight," the genius responds lowly - though it's the information he had undoubtedly expected, he had been hoping for some other news. "Someone is going to die tonight, and mark my words, it shall not be Joan."

"I'm personally going to head the search and conduct the next sweep," Marcus promises, clamping him on the shoulder in a way that could be misconstrued as comforting in other circumstances. "We will find her. And she will be alive."

"Alive," he mutters to himself with absolutely no inflection - the words are numb and meaningless, detached from any semblance of conscious thought. Sherlock thinks he's suffocating from the inside-out - an imaginary someone must be holding a fist around his throat and leisurely squeezing it, flexing clever fingers over the span of sinewy muscle controlling his delicate flow of air. He feels faint and hollow, as if he might just shatter and break into a string of angry, sharp blades of glass. He feels like he cannot _breathe_ and he's been caged into a small and weedy corner, the filth-slicked walls and crumbly asphalt remaining the only blurry images he can make out. He feels like someone is going to have to pay in blood, thick and scarlet and _earned_ , bit by bit and dripping crimson.

"Holmes?" Gregson asks him, concerned. He doesn't dare utter the words 'are you alright' because if there is one thing the consulting detective is most definitely not, it is _alright_.

In response, Sherlock wants to say, "I love her." It is exactly what his mind comes up with, one fatal and foregone conclusion that almost seems like a sidenote after all the evaluations and careful calculations have finished. When normal people love eachother that's all there is left - there's the house and the work and when it's all packed away into tidy mental shelves at the end of the day, they smile and cuddle up on the couch and watch crap telly and tell one another 'love you, darling' and the world spins on. In contrast, he and Joan stop bombs. They take down smuggling rings. They tape bios on the wall and run down unsavory chemists and unmask sociopaths and make too many trips to the morgue. And at the end, when all the evils of the world are strung up and the innocents are tucked safe in their beds, they return home and try to live life in the moments in between, the little snatches of normalcy they steal away. When he thinks about Joan, he wants to make her tea in the mornings and read chapters out of her novels when she's not looking and hijack her crosswords. To most people, that's just the mundane. To Sherlock, it's an essential aspect of reality he never expected to experience and he'd quite like to keep it that way.

The thing is, most victims are allowed to absorb the shock of loss and extrapolate what they can from the situation. They can sit down and feel like they want to die and it's fine, it's normal, even. They are allowed to brokenly mumble things like, "I love her," and it's all part of the plan. They don't fantasize about enacting revenge, no more than a common Hallmark distillation of justice, because they don't understand what it means to track real-life villains through the streets and hand them over.

Sherlock does not have the luxury of caring, much as he wants to be able to scream and throw a fit and curse the heavens. This is just another reason why he's told himself for so long that he shouldn't even dare to love someone - it hurts far too much, and a Holmes cannot afford to have a soul. A conscience is a synonym for a liability.

So instead of telling the bureau, very softly, what he thinks, he steels himself to it instead, turning his feelings into a funnel. "I need to get back to the lab at once. The results for the sample analysis need to be examined as soon as possible." And with that, he's already turning around and heading for the cars.

At the insistence of Gregson, no one at the station even once suggests that Sherlock step back out of proximity to the case or take a breather. They comply to all of his many requests and bear all of his episodes with remarkable grace. He has full and undisclosed reign of all evidence and resources and is practically allowed to get away with anything barring the call for officer commitment (and actual murder).

As a result of this incredible lack of restriction, he completes the case in less than seven hours. The actual facts of the affair are unimportant and are almost instantly ejected from his headspace. Yes, a message from the kidnappers was attained, the fine details were drug from the very dredges of the crime scene, and the bastards were put away by court order in a truly astonishing amount of time (less than twenty-four hours later, nine men stupid enough to mess with Joan Watson were sentenced to life in jail with no chance of probation - an incredible feat from the NYPD legal firm). Unlike in an average case, Sherlock didn't care about the satisfactory conclusion played out in a paper trail. He only wanted Joan.

"Hey," she smiles wearily when she's released from the car. He scrutinizes her, committing her to memory. Her blouse is torn, the ruffles drooping and limp, and her skirt decimated, slashed several times over and not worth sewing back up again. Her legs have nicks on them from the stray edge of a pocket knife, caught in her skin after an obvious attack, and bloodstains mar her arms, eyebrow, and ear. The red is thick and knotted in her disheveled hair and down her chin and _fuck_ he wasn't prepared for that and _damn_ those men need to be _castrated_ he should really find a gun -

"Sherlock," she repeats, and she walks up to him in flats that have been practically dissected - _he watched her put them on this morning and they were in pristine condition_ \- and she holds him. His partner is bruised and battered and her ribs are probably groaning in agony but she's hugging him, arms carefully splayed across his back and pressing reassuring circles into his shoulder blades, like he's the one who was tortured. With slight alarm he notices that his vision has become unnaturally blurred, with little drops of dark appearing on Joan's tattered clothing. He'd call them tears, only Sherlock Holmes doesn't cry.

"You're home," he shakily whispers to her, and suddenly he's squeezing the life out of her spine and sniffing her hair, remembering all at once that she's warm and alive and _there_. Though her sides must be on fire she does not stiffen or request that he hold her any less tightly.

"I'll always come back," his companion states quietly but firmly to him, as if surprised he'd ever doubt that uncompromising fact. "And I feel like hell but that's not going to matter in a few days, and it's not okay but it will be." He blinks at her. The scratches and the discoloration are new, but her eyes - they're still so very clear. Exactly the same as when he last saw them. She is all there, not a single piece of her indomitable self missing.

He kisses her forehead - hard, almost painfully, and her skin goes white for a minute or two - before gently leading her in. "Go get cleaned up. I'll set out dinner and aspirin."

"Grilled cheese," she requests in a way that's more order than suggestion before wobbly - but determinedly - trudging up their stairs. He does as he's told and makes fresh sandwiches and soup, adding garnish for presentation. The pills are neatly set to the side, as is water and a cup of hot tea.

Though starved, when she emerges in pajamas with thorough bandages and scrubbed skin, she eats slowly and with the patience and restraint of a saint. She keeps her composure throughout dinner, during which he munches on stale crackers and mostly just drinks in the sight of her, and heads up to bed with her nightly routine firmly in place.

Her ring is still on her finger. It is entirely without mark or stain.

She doesn't mention anything about her time as a captive - most of which, from time held to injury achieved he already knew or deduced based on the case itself and her condition. The only thing she notes about the experience is a thought, and that happens when they're both back in bed, legs tangled and arms wound closer than usual.

"You know, I think I should have been more afraid," the woman says, hair fanned out like a black halo. "But the thing is, I tried to be, tried to square up and play the victim, and I just couldn't. I knew you'd come around, or Marcus or Gregson or someone, and I just couldn't bring myself to be truly _scarred_ , you know?" She stares at the ceiling, squinting slightly. "If I were anybody else, maybe it would have been different. But then, I know you, and I'd think back to every time that you got kidnapped before and how awful and horrifying it felt and then it all worked out in the end - you came home, and we lived. And when I was taken before . . ." she trails off, almost reminiscent. "You know, I think I was more mad than anything else, even back then. I felt helpless, but also frustrated, and then I got frustrated about feeling so helpless. And now it's just - I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I was coming home. That we would go into work next week and do our jobs and help out some people, and after that we'd get the mail. We'd go see a movie. We'd walk through the park and past that alley and one day it'd be almost funny, like a bad dream that once freaked you out and now it's just history, something that happened." She pokes a finger to his chest. "Sherlock, we're going to get married. We're going to have a family. And then we're going to get old and gnarled and useless together. And since we're going to do all that, we're going to live until we're too old to remember how old we even are, and I'm pretty sure that's a fact."

The genius kisses her properly that time, on the lips, and it's searing. Her cheeks are scarlet when he pulls back and it doesn't make him think of her blood at all, shockingly.

"I love you," he announces, because it's okay to say that now. "And I'm looking forward to it."

Joan smirks, a small, subdued thing meant only for him. "Good," she replies wryly, and as she kisses him back he forgets any lingering bitterness over the situation. It may return tomorrow, but for now he's content to bask in the relief that is Joan being here, safe and with him. "I love you too, by the way."

When he dreams, it's only of the two of them tucked together, him running reverent hands through the ends of her hair while rain falls calmly outside.

* * *

As a whole, humans are messy. They are bold when they should be tempered, impulsive when they should be cautious, cold when they should be accepting. Mankind is but a race of stardust, clumped together into haphazard shapes and improbable dreams, beings full of hopeless contradictions and mad depravity. Wars are called hell because their creation is the very definition of chaos, the sullying of definite rules and comforting logic. Yet even in the very depths and bowels of war there is something both grisly and beautiful: the way the sky steals open and sunrises are all the more stunning because they might be your last, because there is a gun in your holster and you might snatch a bleeding sun from someone else's eyes. The smell of smoke as it clouds terrain, the scent both acrid and piercing, bringing all of your senses to a rapt attention. The burn of an unexpected bullet, razor sharp against the skin but bracing in its awareness of body, of flesh, and how the blood seeps into starchy fabric, warm and scarlet, almost like an ink blot when your vision goes blurry. It's a matter of contrasts, a matter of taking some truths and reinventing the narrative, so what's despicable and vile is nearly calm, is nearly tamed beneath an open mind and skewed perception. With a bit of thought, war is hell, but war is also poetic, a meaningless tragedy sprinkled with some unexpected heart. You might hate it, but your eyes don't - not quite.

And within that endless set of opposites is the human condition. Much like the jarring contrast of war, humans are, as suggested, disgusting. They are every inch as vile and disposable as bodies littering a battlefield, their thoughts a cocktail of racism and sexism and brutality and abuse. Given the choice between curiosity and calm, personal exploration always wins over peace. Peace is too peaceful - peace is but a boring fantasy. No one wants to read the story of a boy and a girl who meet and smile and do everything right and never move and have kids and live uneventful lives, much less act it out. People do such horrible things the minute they are not being studied, whenever they assume their actions have no true consequences. This is why, much as war is hell, morality is a war, too, one between the fundamental and often redefined concepts of 'right and wrong', laden in antiquity though they may be. We are in a constant struggle for betterment, for the type of goodness told about in fairytales, for the strength of will and mind and body to get the girl or the job or the figure we so desire - and we come up short often, dragged down by the quintessential ideals of a selfish and sometimes irredeemable conscience.

This is just the way people are, and there's no changing it. You cannot change human nature because humans are immovably stubborn, or stupid, or embracers of a certain strain of heavy denial. The world runs on the greed and corruption of man and Sherlock is simply there to find the corpses and send home the victims.

He tells Joan this, in the lonely hours. When he's hunched in a ball in his chair, crumbled in the corner of a nearly empty room, all lights dim. And she looks at him, the perfect example of a human man, and she never hesitates to place a hand on his shoulder.

"Change is nature, the part we can influence," she tells him, and her voice is always reassuring but immovable, utterly convinced. "Sherlock, you are not bad. People, despite their many mistakes, are not bad. And I know that because you can smile, because you can create, because your shoulders don't actually drop and relax until all hostages are back home and you're tucked into a cab. I know that people can change for the better because I know you, because you can't turn left on the street without seeing someone pick up someone's pen or tip the waiter or shake hands. There's an awful lot of _awful_ but there's still a lot of light, and if you can love me and I can love you then don't worry about the planet - I can do enough of it for both of us." Joan always pulls him up to his feet, hugs him tightly until there's no room for air or doubt or thought. "Sherlock Holmes, you are the best thing that's ever happened to me, and you are not useless or selfish or irredeemable. The best part about being human is that we can pick ourselves back up, and you've never failed to do just that. I think that makes you the most perfect man I've ever come across."

He does cry. He never tries to, but when he gets like this, when he has days of hopelessness or abandon, it all drains out.

She holds him until it's over, and not a second before.

As he wakes up from a recollection of one of those horrid black days, he looks at his lovely partner and notices that she's not only safe and sound but she's smiling in her sleep, face content and stretched smooth. She is his conductor of light, the one who reminds him everything will be okay. She is always striving for self-improvement, always tough as nails and hardworking and unfathomably kind in the oddest of places. Despite her many flaws, her heart is in the right place.

He loves her, and she gives him hope for the human race. If Joan Watson exists, then goodness must also. All else is as follows.

* * *

"More wine?" a waitress asks. Joan smiles widely and nods politely, to which the woman pours. Sherlock frankly can't keep his eyes off of his partner - it's so rare that they get the occasion to dress up, and she's nothing less than radiant in a stunning deep blue evening gown and long black gloves. Though he might be biased, he privately thinks she's the most beautiful woman in the room.

As soon as the server leaves their table his partner's eyes go mischievous and she swirls her drink casually, taking a sip. "She's come by at least three times. I think I can top off my own glass since the bottle's right in front of us, but. I suppose she wouldn't have a job if I did."

Sherlock stifles a laugh - it wouldn't be looked at kindly in the restaurant they're in. "This is why we usually eat in. You have the blessed gift of hand-autonomy."

"Mmmm, and how I miss it," she muses, setting down the glass. "I think this is the first anniversary we've had where we've actually pretended to be regular millionaires instead of slumming it on the roof. What inspired this decision?" He shrugs almost delicately and takes another swig - even if the food isn't out yet, the wine is quite good. Vintage, 1947.

The waitress refills his fancy cup again. Joan grins behind her hand.

"In answer to your question," he resumes again as the woman leaves to go smother another table's conversation, "I thought it would be kind of like a practice for the rehearsal dinner. The multiple courses, the place settings - the wedding's only in a few months, now that we've finally set the date. Also, how much originality would it take to re-configure the roof for a fifth anniversary?"

"I'd be spending it with you - that's enough," his companion tells him, sinking back into her chair. "Now, I have no problems with elegant restaurants but I kind of hoped our day would be a bit more laid back. I expect a lot of laughter and a lot of our 'dratted impropriety', for starters." She nearly snorts at the thought of something and just barely catches it, pretending to cough delicately. "Imagine any of our friends trying to navigate a place-setting. I'm telling you, Alfredo will not be using a sugar spoon and I seriously doubt Gregson is going to change glasses for every course."

"Oh, like we're examples of class and prestige, Joan," Sherlock smirks fondly, smoothing his cloth napkin. It was white, for some insipid reason - why were high-end places always giving out white napkins? They were by far the hardest to clean and remove stains from, and in a restaurant those things were bound to occur at every meal. Black, now that was the mark of a smart establishment.

"You're a child," she says with a fond roll of her eyes, lips smothering another smile. "I'm a gentlewoman."

"So you say," the consulting detective nods, and they toast as their first course arrives.

"Another glass?" the waitress questions again, and they both vehemently agree with straight faces. The poor server is confused as ever as she pours once more.

At the end of the night they are both stuffed. Seven courses was frankly four too many - Joan had experienced enough truffle oil to last a lifetime.

"They were too liberal with the caviar," Sherlock announces firmly. "A very particular balance must be breached when one is experimenting with such ingredients."

"The cake," his partner moans as though that should clear everything up. "That chocolate cake was to die for."

"I could do better," he mentions offhandedly, coping a sideways glance at her. She waves him off - she knows him too well and simply won't fall into the trap that is compliment fishing.

"To _die_ for," she repeats.

The genius hums and swings their intertwined hands absentmindedly. "I know, you stole mine too. I think I got five bites in."

"Four, actually," she responds with far too much self-satisfaction, "and I would have fought you for it. And you would have let me win."

"Happy you're enjoying your coma, Joan."

"Very much so, yes." She sighs into his shoulder, coming up next to him as they walk. It does something funny to his heart - he rather wants to kiss every freckle on her face. "Movie night?"

"I'll set up the screen," he agrees easily. And that is how an engaged Joan Watson in a very handsome dress, one of her partner's too-big coats, and a pair of beaten-up slippers ends up watching a black and white film ( _A Roman Holiday_ \- her pick, as it should be) on an old tarp with an engaged Sherlock Holmes, who in his dashing suit had somehow lost his shoes and (despicable) tie but acquired warm but truly ugly knitted socks from a certain Mrs. Watson, senior. It was unorthodox to say the least but it was them, and that was all that seemed to matter in the end. As Sherlock's mind lazily recounts the night's events in his dreams, he cannot help but think that it went better than anticipated.

* * *

Sometimes, there is no desperate running or odd jobs at all. Sometimes, there's just Sherlock and Joan, picking up the post and going to the store and reading on the couch. Now, in the midst of it all, they even plan a wedding. They both agree that it should be small and intimate, only close friends and family. Ms. Hudson, Bell, Gregson, Alfredo, Joan's brother, sister-in-law, and mother, and a few other carry-over girlfriends she still sees and loves, mixed with a few of his oldest and dearest regulars. Kitty is invited, though it's about a fifty-fifty shot that she'll actually receive the note or agree to arrive in person. More likely she'll find out via long-distance spying and send a letter, but either way the door's open.

He considers not inviting his father. Joan shakes her head and sends a handwritten letter to the elder Holmes that she doesn't let Sherlock read, much to his chagrin. Later, when he asks her what was in it, she smiles innocently, but there's murder in her eyes.

"Oh, I invited him and said we'd save a chair. I also said that if he was going to be an insidious prick during the ceremony or if he was going to be a detriment to you, I'd beat his ass with said chair. So really, how the evening progresses is entirely dependent on his good behavior, if he's brave enough to come." She returns to the stationary for the menu. "Cream or periwinkle?"

"I love you, Joan," he blurts out suddenly. He needs to squeeze her so _hard_ her spine will shrivel. "Just, I love you."

"Cream it is, and I like black embossing with that," she replies. Then she kisses him and he forgets all mention of placards and menu embossing. "You're pretty lucky the feeling's mutual."

(Whenever he sleeps and looks back upon his life, the quiet loops and twists and dives it's taken, he is grateful that it's lead him to this. The sunny afternoons, the sudoku hijackings, the insufferable trips to the mall, the wedding planning - these little pockets of calm, he thinks, are his very favorite parts of his existence. If he were to do everything again, make every stupid and minute mistake over, he would do it all just to be able to be loved by one Joan Watson.)

* * *

When he sees her in the dress, she's -

She was beautiful before, simply stunning, but now it's -

She's effervescent, practically glowing in a sea of white. She hadn't let him see it before now, but it's nothing short of magnificent. It flares out slightly at the waist, the tulle thickening as it descends, swaying whenever she takes a step. It's delicately beaded and embroidered, flowers and intricately stitched vines crawling down the fabric. And the necklace is classic with a slight v in the middle, the back partially carved out - it's very tasteful, very Joan. He falls in love with it instantly, much the same way he fell for the woman inside it.

Today is the only day her ring isn't residing snugly on her finger. It's secured on the back of a turtle, tied up with his.

Her mother walks her down the aisle, trying not to cry. That's more than fine, though - Joan is smiling brightly enough for both of them, her reddened lips spread wide and her dark lashes crinkled with mirth. Sherlock could die, he's so happy. Just looking at her right now, so sure, so perfect, is enough to make him happy forever. The shoes are obnoxious and the tie is too tight but all that fades away - Joan is now about to lose the name Watson forever.

"So nice of you to make it," he whispers to her as she takes his arm, Mary lightly patting their shoulders as she turns to sit.

"Thought I'd crash the party," she fires back warmly, and if they were alone she would most certainly be laughing. "I like what we've done with the place." Indeed, he did too. The colors were gold and red, creamy sashes cinched with flowers lining the pews. The ceremony itself taking place in an appropriate church and the party being held at a scenic wooded pergola, the place dotted with silvery trees. At night the stars would all be visible and lanterns would be lit - it would be spectacular.

And cheaper, probably, then renting out an expensive venue for dancing and exploitation, so there was that. They wanted comfortable and they'd sought it out, and Sherlock wouldn't have it any other way.

"Dearly beloved," the priest begins, "we are gathered here today to witness the union of one Joan Watson and one Sherlock Holmes." At this juncture, she squeezes him hand. All else seems to fade away until the 'I do' portion, at which point he says the words with something akin to reverence. She repeats them with similar affection and no reservation in her eyes. "By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I declare you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride." He cups her face fondly and strokes the side of her cheek, brushing away loose strands of hair.

"You look unbelievable, Joan," he tells her quietly. "You _are_ unbelievable." Her beam, unguarded, says everything else.

His kiss is brief but passionate, more loving than he thought he could ever be capable of. And yet, after all this time, it couldn't be anything but that. Together they are unstoppable.

The after party and venue is even better. Everyone they invited actually showed up, for one, which is. Incredible. Sherlock hasn't seen this many people who don't want to kill him together in a room since the womb, probably, so that was fairly nice. For Joan to have her whole family show up, close friends included, was also fantastic. It had been far too long since everyone had seen eachother, which was punctuated by the fact that Oren's wife was pregnant again, this time with a boy. Joan nearly started sobbing, hands clenched over her mouth. Sherlock congratulated them profusely, and if a tear was shed the second they left then that wasn't anyone else's business.

His father showed, unfortunately. He was a perfect gentleman, even going as far as to extend his approval and gratitude for their hard work, but Sherlock still sorely wished he would evaporate into thin air. As a wedding gift he'd brought an aged chardonnay, which was really just proof that he knew nothing about Sherlock. Chardonnay, _really_. But Joan pledged to get rid of it so apparently it would have a use and he wouldn't get to drop it off the edge to the balcony when they got home.

They got the food partially catered and partially transported from home. Sherlock was fond of his baked Alaska recipe and his many souffles, which dramatically lowered the cost of an outside hire. The cake, a beautiful gold-leaf confection, was entirely his doing. Very chocolate-y. Very rich.

"Leftovers," his wife (his _wife_ ) says to him with a hungry look in her eyes. He grins far too much.

However, one of the waitstaff did look an awful lot like one Kitty Winters. Joan, after receiving a compliment and a subtle wink from the girl as they packed up, much agreed.

"I miss her," he announces. She nods gently.

"She's ours," Joan sighs, and with that they return to the many festivities.

"Sherlock, I love you."

He doesn't actively think, he just spews out what is always his candid response to that sentence. "I love you too, Joan." When he relives the experience that night in an eternal loop, the laughter and hand-holding and bright and luminous Joan, he cannot imagine a more perfect day.

* * *

There's a someone across the way from them, walking up the black steps and holding onto the red plastic rudders, ascending to the peak of the structure.

"Almost there, sweetie," Joan calls from the bench, voice measured and warm. She leans into his side. "God, it's precious," she sighs, wind picking up her hair and removing it from its careful tuck beneath her scarf.

 _Precious,_ he thinks cautiously, brow furrowing slightly. _Why precious?_

And then, it hits him as the child reaches the top of a playground very near the brownstone, sliding down the red rubber slide. _Oh, oh wow._ His mind can produce no more than silent wonderment, a feeling both consuming and fluttering overtaking his stomach. _Oh, indeed._

(Like before, if he were a smarter man, perhaps it would have struck him sooner.

What he wouldn't give to be a father unlike his own, to have a mini Watson running around.)

"Good job, sweetheart!" Joan coos. Her smile is infectious - he feels it overtaking his face inch by inch. In response, the child giggles, a high-pitched sound that seems to reverberate around his skull. As they are about to swivel their head, their mother's dark hair catching the breeze, Sherlock awakes.

He blinks the sleep from his eyes, surprised. To say the return from his unconsciousness was jarring would be an understatement. It's not as if he's never thought about being a parent before, but it's much more _real_ , seeing a small body in front of him, watching Joan grin at it like it's her world.

Sherlock Holmes wants children. That singular thought is more revolutionary than life itself.

* * *

"I'm pregnant," his partner tells him some nine months later. She bites her lip, though it's unclear if it's from nerves or unease. "And, you know, it's ours."

He blinks. He's still in shock. "That's reassuring, Joan."

"I'm, um. I'm pretty happy about it, personally," she continues, complete with swallow. For the first time Sherlock entertains the idea that Joan Holmes (and on that note, he absolutely adores calling her by that name, introducing her to people and saying, 'Hello, this is Joan Holmes, my wife', more than he ever thought possible - much as he liked Watson, hearing 'Joan Holmes' spoken out loud is an almost addictive sort of rush) is capable of being nervous around _him_ , of all people. The concept is near impossible to compute - he trusts her with his house, his bees, his life, his heart, and just about everything else, and he knows the feeling is mutual. They are simply too close for indecision, or so he thought. Apparently things changed when this area of life was broached, something entirely outside any of what their advanced investigative training had prepared them for.

"Good, that's good," he manages to squeak out, and he thinks about all the things that will change. No more quiet do-as-we-please mornings, no dropping everything to go hit the town on a whim, no driving their cold case hypotheses into the ground over a three day period. It will be the end to life as he's known it over the past six years.

Joan frowns. "Is it, though? You seem like your life is flashing before your eyes, and I . . ." She glances out the window. "Okay, I know you have a strained relationship with your . . . _Morland_ as it is and it hasn't exactly warmed you up to the idea of parenthood, but -"

"I'm going to be a father, Joan," he interrupts, cupping her cheeks in his suddenly outstretched hands. "A _father_." Despite his best efforts, something wet and salty slides down the plane of his face. "Isn't it incredible?" It's at that moment when Joan realizes she has nothing to fear.

She brushes away the droplet (a tear, but that's not very cold and calculating and he has a reputation to uphold - or at least, the shambles of one, as being in a committed relationship basically took a blowtorch to the perception of him as 'heartless' around the general masses) with the pad of her thumb, starting to laugh and cry uncontrollably, eyes shining.

"Yes, yes it is," the dark haired woman answers, gasping for air. Her hand comes to rest on her stomach, ring glowing softly in the pale wispy light of their curtain-covered windows. "I can't wait."

(Later in the dreams that come, Sherlock will try to envision a face, but each time it evades him. But much like the fickle concept of love incarnate, he now has faith this new illusive beast will reveal itself eventually. All they have to do is wait.)

* * *

Sherlock's old room, laughably, becomes a nursery. They could not have picked a more dangerous and suspect place to child-proof if they'd scoured all the warehouses in Brooklyn, much to their chagrin, but after several days of hard work and elbow grease, it almost looks like somewhere an infant might reside and live.

Almost. But it's still the brownstone and they are still themselves, so it's questionable at best. The walls are blue, though, and that's more charming than the acid washes and blood swabs put there previously for the sake of experimentation (it was a phase, and not one he was proud of). Gender neutrality was key.

"Wouldn't you want to know?" Alfredo asks eventually, brow knit tightly.

"My whole life has been a series of missteps and surprises," the detective shrugs. "This is, quite possibly, the only good one that's ever been thrown my way. I wouldn't change that for the world."

"Other than Joan, hopefully. I'd hate to see her in a rage," he corrects, shuddering. Sherlock merely grins.

"Oh, she's terrifying. I'm the luckiest man alive." And he is.

* * *

Seven pounds and nine ounces.

She's seven pounds and nine ounces and every single inch of her is absolutely perfect, from her tiny, impossibly strong lungs to her wrinkled pink skin and little feet. The second he was allowed to see her, the very instant he got to hold her and her flailing fingers seemed to wrap around his infinitely bigger one for just a moment, he fell in love.

That's his daughter, his family, and if anything ever tries to harm her he'll smite it with a mere glare. That's all it would take.

"Rain Jupiter Holmes," Joan mumbles from her hospital bed, woozy from the pain but smiling an exhausted smile as they look down at _their child_. "That's what we said we'd call her, if it was a girl. For the sky, 'cause we both said 'meteor' was a horrible name and she'd never forgive us." He grins at the screaming bundle in a pink blanket and shakes his head.

"I think it works," he agrees, dropping a peck to Joan's forehead. "Either way, she's crying up a storm."

"I would hurt you," his wife warns, not focused on anything but their daughter, "but that would set a bad example."

"You need to sleep," the genius tells her, smoothing back her sweat-soaked locks. "You pushed for hours."

"I'm a consultant for the NYPD," she says without skipping a beat. "As I've told the uppity male officers in our department many times, I'll sleep when I'm dead."

They hold Rain for another ten minutes before she's taken away for observation. It's quite possibly the most revolutionary ten minutes of his life.

* * *

When she cries, Joan groans for release from this mortal coil. They both work on a part-time basis throughout the first year and it's. A process, tagging along for cases when they can and trying to raise an infant. What his wife bemoans the most about parenthood thus far is, naturally, the sleep deprivation. Though Sherlock finds himself adjusting - before having to adopt a schedule to share a bed with Joan he was quite the insomniac and was used to working odd, short hours - she does not.

At all.

"I love her, but," she complains, covering her head with a pillow. "Please. Take this one."

"No problem, Joan," he reassures, squeezing her lightly before walking down the hall to Rain, the wails ceasing somewhat when he enters. "Vying for attention again?" She whimpers, albeit with less bite than before. "Bright as ever." He rocks her for a solid forty minutes and doesn't regret anything, despite the general lack of sanity shrouding the house. Now when Sherlock's night visions attempt to encapsulate the future, they have a face to focus on, and it's nothing short of _amazing_.

* * *

"Daddy, Mommy, look!" she squeals, barreling through the door. It's her first day of second grade and it's just - she's _wonderful_. She's got on two prim and proper Mary Janes and a corduroy dress with brass buttons and her hair, shining dark and straight, is all pulled up into a red knitted cap Ms. Watson wove herself. She's beaming, holding up some drawing from school in between her thin little digits, all rounded pink fingernails and soft knuckles. She's all he never thought he could have, and he couldn't possibly ask for more.

"What do we have here?" Sherlock asks, pulling her up into his lap with a smile. He frowns, however, when he notices what she's depicted. "Honey, what's that?"

Rain rolls her eyes with the exasperation of a child, an expression far too old and familiar for her young face. She truly is just like her mother. "It's the periodic table, Daddy. The art teacher said it was special because it's accurate, but I didn't add the inner transition metals." She shrugs as if it doesn't matter. "I'll draw them in next time, but with markers."

"Fantastic, droplet," he tells her emphatically, hugging her fiercely. "I'm so _proud_ of you, sweetheart, alright?"

"Very impressive, sweetie," Joan says faintly, mentally scouring the sloppy crayon creation. To her husband, she leans over and whispers, "This is all your fault for reading 'Baby's First Chemistry Boardbook' to her when she was two." He snorts, leaning in closer with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"She's _ours_ , Joan," he replies, standing up and resting his daughter on his hip, picture now folded neatly in the elementary schooler's hands. "Like she'd be anything _but_ brilliant."

With a warm shake of her head, Joan leans in and slots her lips to his, sweet and dizzying and _right_ after all this time. "I love you."

"I love you, too." He couldn't dream a better family if he tried.

* * *

 **That was . . . long. It took forever to get out, I know. I just wanted to end it right and make sure it felt and flowed okay, and I wasn't about to shove out writing for this epilogue if it was only sub-par. As a result, it went stagnant in my documents for the longest time. Recently I got more inspiration for this and decided to power through it while everything had concept and basic structure and so here it is, rough and sappy but finally finished. Hallelujah, honestly.**

 **Halfway through it gets a bit angsty. It's partially because I read _The Things they Carried_ by Tim O'Brien (fantastic book and fantastic writing, by the way, go check it out) and _The Book Thief_ by Markus Zusak again and was feeling a bit introspective, and partially because I just wanted to show something cathartic, an aspect of life and insecurity that comes from the pressuring nature of their work that must be addressed and confronted. Life is not perfect and it certainly isn't easy, and that's why we need those around us to remind us that there's more out there than what our minds limit us to in times of doubt or hopelessness. A real relationship must struggle through that fundamental dilemma to ensure it's own survival, and that small thought inspired those scenes. **

**Anyhow** **, thanks so much for getting here! This was intended to be mostly-happy, mostly-funny, just a cap to a story that didn't often get the opportunity to be overly fluffy from start to finish. I might have lost the root of the inner monologue that way but I didn't want to write another connecting leg of the narrative - the confusion and complexity of the journey are over, and now there's peace. It can relax its format and just ease into something better for digestion.**

 **Also, I confined myself to a quick resolution, so. Style may have suffered but I went for what would be most satisfying to hear, and I think I did okay in that department. I'm proud of myself for actually finishing a damn project for once.**

 **I appreciate you reading this more than just about anything right now. Again, thanks so much for the positive feedback on this story and have a fantastic day, love you guys!**


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